The healer's tent stood a little apart from the center of the camp, where the noise of weapons and raised voices faded and gave way to another kind of sound—low groans, heavy breathing, and the quiet clink of metal instruments.
It was where men came when war had already taken its price.
The healer pushed the flap aside with her shoulder and guided Rowan inside.
The air was different there.
It smelled of crushed herbs, sour wine, and blood.
Lanterns hung from ropes tied to the tent poles, casting a golden light that trembled faintly whenever the wind slipped through the canvas.
Three men lay on improvised cots.
One of them slept.
Another breathed with difficulty.
The third stared at the ceiling without moving, as if he were still on the battlefield.
The healer led Rowan to a low bench.
— Sit.
He didn't argue.
His leg had already begun to tremble.
As soon as his weight settled onto the bench, the pain returned in full—like a slow blade pushing through the muscle.
He exhaled through his nose.
The woman knelt in front of him without ceremony.
Her hands were quick and firm, the hands of someone accustomed to dealing with men larger than herself and wounds far worse.
She pulled aside the torn cloth around his leg.
Observed.
Pressed lightly.
Rowan clenched his jaw.
— Hm.
She tilted her head.
— You're lucky.
— I've been told that today.
— No. — she replied without looking up. — You're lucky you can still feel pain.
She pressed another point.
Harder.
Rowan gripped the edge of the bench.
— If the muscle had truly torn… — she continued — you'd be dragging that leg for the rest of your life.
She reached for a small clay jar beside her.
Opened it.
The smell of bitter herbs spread into the air.
— But there's still time to save it.
Rowan watched her hands working.
Firm.
Precise.
Like someone who had done this hundreds of times.
After a moment he asked:
— Do you always walk into a circle of armed soldiers like that?
She released a small breath of laughter.
— When it's necessary.
She began applying the herbal paste over the swollen muscle.
The burning came immediately.
— And when I'm curious.
Rowan raised an eyebrow slightly.
— Curious?
She finally looked up.
— I saw the battlefield yesterday.
A brief silence.
— I saw the dragon.
The name didn't need to be spoken.
Everyone in that camp knew.
She returned to working on his leg.
— Burned men. Charred horses. Melted shields.
She looked up at Rowan again.
— And yet…
A small pause.
— you're here.
Rowan glanced toward the canvas of the tent for a moment.
Thinking.
— Yeah.
She continued:
— So I'm trying to understand something.
She wrapped a firm bandage around his thigh.
— How a soldier of Edric survives dragonfire.
The silence that followed lasted longer.
Outside the tent, distant voices moved through the camp.
Metal striking metal.
Footsteps.
War never truly slept.
Rowan finally answered.
— I'm trying to figure that out too.
The healer studied him for a few seconds.
Trying to decide whether that was a joke.
Or a lie.
Or simply the truth.
Then she shook her head.
— Don't walk today.
— That's not going to happen.
— Then try not to run.
A faint, tired smile appeared on his face.
— That I can promise.
She finished tightening the bandage and stood.
— Done.
Rowan placed his hands on the bench and pushed himself to his feet.
Slower this time.
The leg still hurt.
But it held.
When he was standing, the healer crossed her arms.
— What's your name?
He answered without hesitation.
— Rowan.
She nodded.
— Well, Rowan—
Before she could finish—
A shadow passed over the tent.
Quick.
But large enough to darken the lantern light for a full second.
Outside, voices stopped.
Some men murmured.
Others fell silent.
Because everyone in the camp knew that shadow.
The dragon.
Rowan lifted his eyes toward the canvas above.
And for a brief moment, something passed through his expression.
Something difficult to name.
The healer noticed.
— Have you seen dragons before?
Rowan took a moment before answering.
Then said:
— Not this close.
Outside, a distant roar echoed over the camp.
Ancient.
Powerful.
As if reminding every man beneath it of a simple truth:
some creatures do not belong to the wars of men.
And yet… they rule the battlefield.
The dragon's shadow seemed to linger over the camp even after the beating of wings faded into the sky.
Outside the tent, voices had lowered.
Men who had once spoken loudly now talked in quieter tones—as they always did when Vaerith, Lyra's dragon, crossed the sky above them.
Inside the tent, Rowan stood beside the bench.
He tested the weight on his leg.
The pain was still there.
But the tight bandage held the muscle in place.
The healer watched in silence.
Arms crossed.
Studying him.
— Don't push it too far, — she said at last. — One wrong step and all my work will be useless.
Rowan released a quiet breath.
— I try not to waste the work of someone who saves me.
Before she could respond—
The entrance of the tent opened.
No warning.
No announcement.
Just the sharp movement of canvas pushed aside.
Night light entered first.
Then she followed.
Lyra.
Her presence changed the air in the tent the way a storm changes the sea.
It wasn't just authority.
It was something harder to describe.
Something that made trained men straighten their posture without realizing it.
The healer was the first to react.
She inclined her head slightly.
— My lady.
Lyra didn't answer immediately.
Her eyes were on Rowan.
Watching him the way someone watches a newly discovered weapon—trying to decide whether it is useful… or dangerous.
She stepped inside.
The dirt floor muted the sound of her boots.
— So he's still standing.
Her voice was calm.
Almost disinterested.
The healer replied:
— For now.
Lyra briefly glanced at the bandage on Rowan's leg.
— Will he walk?
— He will, — said the healer. — If he doesn't do something stupid.
Rowan raised an eyebrow slightly.
— I'm right here.
Lyra ignored the remark.
She stepped closer.
Stopped less than two paces from him.
— Tell me something, soldier.
Silence.
— How does a man remain alive after standing in the path of Vaerith's fire?
The question was simple.
But it carried weight.
The kind of question that wasn't mere curiosity.
It was investigation.
Rowan held her gaze.
— I stayed out of the hottest part.
The healer let out a small sound of disbelief.
Lyra didn't look convinced either.
But the corner of her mouth shifted slightly.
— Luck, then.
Rowan shrugged.
— I prefer to think so.
A brief silence fell between them.
Then Lyra stepped back.
Turned toward the tent exit.
As if the conversation were already over.
But before leaving, she said:
— Don't die today, Rowan.
She looked over her shoulder.
— I'm still deciding what to do with you.
Then she left.
The tent flap fell back into place.
For a few seconds, only the distant sounds of the camp remained.
The healer slowly exhaled.
— You have a special talent for attracting the attention of the wrong people.
Rowan replied:
— I've been practicing.
But outside the tent, Lyra had not left.
She walked a few steps through the firelit camp.
Soldiers moved out of her path instinctively.
Until a voice rose behind her.
— My lady.
A tall man approached.
Armor marked by use.
A serious face.
One of the captains.
Lyra stopped.
— Speak.
He cast a quick glance toward the healer's tent.
— The man… Rowan.
— Yes.
— Do you want me to watch him?
Lyra took a moment before answering.
Her gaze lifted briefly toward the dark sky, where the dragon had disappeared among the clouds.
Then returned to the captain.
— Find out who he is.
A pause.
— Where he came from.
Another pause.
— And how a simple soldier survives dragonfire.
The captain nodded.
— It will be done.
Lyra began to walk away again.
But before she had gone far, she added:
— And captain…
He stopped.
— Yes, my lady.
Lyra didn't turn around.
— Be discreet.
A small silence followed.
Then she said:
— I don't want him to know.
The captain inclined his head.
— Understood.
Meanwhile, inside the healer's tent—
Rowan had sat down again.
Watching the bandage around his own leg.
Unaware that, on that very night,
someone had already begun searching for answers about him.