The air inside the tent was heavy with the smell of blood, sweat, and boiled herbs. Shani knelt beside the cot, her sleeves rolled past the elbow, crimson smears marking her apron. Outside, the muffled chaos of groaning men and shouted orders bled through the canvas. She peeled back the knight’s torn gambeson, inspecting the shallow gashes across his chest.

"Hold still," she said, dipping a cloth into warm water. "You’ll live, but I’ll make sure the scars aren’t too ugly. Don’t want to frighten the tavern girls, do you?"