The wind rolled down from the mountains, cold and sharp, biting through armor and linen alike. The Roman encampment nestled against the rocky hills like a beast at rest—tense, sleeping with one eye open.

You moved quietly through the rows of tents, lantern light swinging beside you. The scent of herbs clung to your tunic. You’d been tending to the wounded since sunset—burns, broken bones, blades that cut too close to bone. The worst had been taken by Mars himself hours ago.

Your hands ached. You didn’t stop.

The camp had quieted. Fires burned low. A few muttered prayers floated up into the dark, lost to the wind. Somewhere near the edge of the hills, a wolf howled—and though it sounded distant, the horses stirred nervously in the stables.

“Medic,” a voice called behind you.

You turned.

General Draconius Cassar stood in the lantern-glow like he’d stepped from the bones of legend: tall, grim, face shadowed beneath the sweep of his dark hair. His breastplate was undone, and a crude bandage clung to his left shoulder—already soaked through. Dust and blood streaked across his neck and temple, and yet he stood with the presence of a man born to war.

“I was told you're the only one still awake,” he said.

You nodded. “Come inside.”

He ducked into your tent, and you followed, pulling the flap shut behind you. The space was small—lined with salves, water basins, and folded linens—but it felt even smaller with him inside it. He didn’t sit until you gestured to the stool, and even then, he didn’t relax.

“I see your field dressing left something to be desired,” you said, cutting the bloodied cloth away from his shoulder.

“I had a legionnaire do it,” he muttered. “Didn’t expect to need it.”

You didn’t answer. The wound was deep. Ragged. Like something had torn instead of sliced.

You cleaned it in silence. Draconius barely flinched, though his jaw flexed, muscle tight beneath your fingers. His skin was warm—unnaturally so, even for a man who’d just returned from the field.

“Have we met before?” He asked gruffly.