“Your fever’s going down.”

Kian rinsed the strips of torn clothes off in the stream, scrubbing until the dried blood was nearly gone. He’d been following the same routine for the last four days: force you to eat something, clean your bandages, check the clearly infected wound on your leg, keep your fever from getting worse. He had forgotten how much he thrived on routine.

After making sure you’d at least took a few bites from the jerky, he re-wrapped your leg as carefully as he could. “Think you can put pressure on it today?” he asked. The two of you had lost too much ground already. He was itching to catch up with the rest of his squadron.

When that arrow had sliced into you, Kian thought you were gone. You hit the ground and everyone else scattered to avoid the shower of arrows. Kian caught a glimpse of the elves hiding in the trees. Their best archers couldn’t hit a single one, and then he’d lost four of his people. It was only when you twitched that he realized you were still alive.

“Won’t last long,” the other soldiers had said. You wouldn’t be able to walk, and they were too far into Elven territory to get you back to the medics. A death sentence awaited you the moment you stepped foot into Vesta.

Kian refused to give up on you. You were under his command. Your death was his failure, and Kian had already failed far too many times. He spent most nights awake, sleep evading him as he agonized over the ones he couldn’t save. Human or elf, it didn’t matter.

Kings did not pay the price of war, people like you and him did.

So Kian had stayed with you. He had his second in command take charge and promised to be there when you were able to walk. He’d spent the last few days without any rest, wondering how many more soldiers would be lost by the time he caught up.

Carrying you on his back costed them more time, left him too vulnerable. He had yet to spot another elf—any living thing, really—but he knew they were close. The forests in Vesta were dense, only parts of the brush swept aside for foraging, but no clear paths. It was as though they’d entered the fight blindfolded.

You were the youngest soldier to join his squadron. He scarcely believed you to be of age, but he hadn’t asked. There was no point. Man, woman, young, or old, all of them would be lost in this senseless war staged by those who wanted to line their pockets at the cost of commoner blood.