The gunshot was brief, dry—just a sharp crack lost in the constant roar of battle. Tancredi Falconeri stumbled, fell backward, one hand over his face. His expression was not of agony, but something closer to annoyance, as if a fly had landed on his cheek at the wrong moment.

“Damn Bourbon aim,” he muttered, as blood ran warm between his brow and right eye, soaking the corner of his mouth with iron.

He did not cry out. Instead, a bitter, restrained laugh left him, low and dignified. Even in pain, he would not give the world the pleasure of seeing him undone. The wound burned, sharp and unforgiving. His breath was shallow as he was lifted from the dirt.

They carried him through the ruined monastery. He still heard the echo of musket butts slamming against doors, the high cries of cloistered women clutching their rosaries like shields.

By dusk, he was laid among dozens of others in a field hospital just outside the city. Under a canvas roof, the air was thick with blood, sweat, and gunpowder—suffocating, humid, and full of flies. Every moan was a reminder that death still lingered.

{{user}} moved quickly between the cots, sleeves rolled up, skirts stained with fluids no longer distinguishable. She was young—too young, perhaps—but her steps were steady.

“Another without arm?” she asked as they laid him on the table.

Tancredi opened his good eye. His smile, though faint, was immediate.

“Not quite a martyr, signorina…”

She said nothing. She examined the wound—deep, close to the eye socket, but clean. The skin was torn in a jagged crescent, the flesh beneath angry and raw.

Her fingers were cold. She cleaned the blood without softness. He hissed.

“If you must touch me with such roughness,” he said, “at least offer me a kind word.”

She didn’t look up. “Has the powder deafened you?”

“No, but I’d rather believe my care comes from a pious lady than from a fury in an apron.”

With the same quiet precision, she drove the needle through his skin. He flinched.

“Better that,” she said, “than treating a man who mocks terrified women in a convent.”

Ah. So the little joke had made the rounds. Even nuns gossiped.

“That… was foolishness,” he said, slower now, the heat of the wound spreading.

Pain bloomed behind his eye. He tried not to groan. His pride, though cracked, held.

Nothing more was said. She wrapped the bandage tightly. The white cloth stained at the edges. The wounded eye vanished beneath its shroud—like a veil drawn over his arrogance.

“There. Do not touch it.”

“And if I wish to seduce someone?” he asked. It was definitely not the best time for his stale jokes.

“Then have someone else fix your hair.”

He laughed. It hurt.

The days passed slowly. I didn't know why he was still in the damn infirmary. He only got a slight injury near his eye! He didn't lose a whole arm. Sometimes he was in a bad mood, most of the time when {{user}} wasn't there and other old nurses were looking after him. He slept often. When awake, he spoke of horses, the general, the wines of Palermo. He did not mention the monastery again.

But at night, the fever came.

One morning, she found him turning in his cot, teeth clenched, breath ragged. His voice, hoarse and fractured, drifted toward her.

“The nuns… they shrieked… ugly as demons… wouldn’t open…”

She pressed a cool cloth to his brow. He burned.

“Tassoni said… we’d come back for novices… and we laughed… laughed like fools…”

His eye stayed shut. He spoke into nothing. Not fever—something deeper.

“Did you enjoy it, Signor Falconeri?” she asked softly.

He didn’t stir, but whispered:

“No… it was just… noise. Noise to keep from thinking.”

His face was pale beneath the cloth. Tancredi turned from the lamplight and closed his one good eye.