"Go," she repeated.
They obeyed, half-lifting, half-dragging him across soggy ground. Vaelira stood, wiping crimson from her hand onto the torn hem of her cloak. Every gesture made her ribs ache; every heartbeat felt like another coin paid to strain.
She pivoted slowly, sweeping her gaze over the survivors. Near a cluster of smoldering logs, two archers knelt, binding each other's wounds with torn cloak strips, fingers trembling. A healer sat cross-legged between three unconscious elves, lines of old fatigue etched so deep across her brow they looked carved. Farther out, one lone vanguard member walked the edge of the treeline, spear held like a crutch more than a weapon. He paused every dozen steps to listen, head cocked—not expecting an ambush, merely needing assurance that the forest still breathed with them and not against them.
