The medical camp was a patchwork of canvas and blood, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and death. The groans of the wounded wove into the low murmur of nurses and orderlies moving with practiced efficiency.

Then came the sound of boots—heavy, deliberate. A figure emerged at the entrance, tall despite the way he leaned slightly to one side. His uniform, once pristine, was now torn and stained, the insignia barely visible under dried mud and blood. A captain. Claude Abella.