She remembered the night her Third Legion had been ambushed at Redwater Crossing. With their medical corps cut off, she'd been forced to adapt her flame sorcery to treat the wounded while simultaneously coordinating a defensive perimeter. By morning, she'd saved seventeen soldiers who would have otherwise bled out—and her strategic repositioning had turned the ambush back on their attackers. That night had taught her the value of versatility, of using every tool available in unexpected ways.
"You learn to improvise when the battle plan fails," she murmured to the unconscious elf as she carefully applied a poultice to the worst burns. "Strategy is about adaptation as much as preparation."
A knock at the door interrupted her work. Elara tensed momentarily before recognizing the particular pattern—three soft taps followed by a pause and then two more. The slave merchant's delivery.
