The flickering lamp-glow above Garrach's head fractured into splintered shards. Each gasp for air was a ragged tearing in her chest, the black tendrils on her collarbone seeming to writhe, eager to consume her entirely. Garrach’s voice was a rough rumble against her ear, laced with a fear she’d never heard from him, a stark contrast to the icy calm he usually wore. “Vornen! Now!” The words were a roar, cutting through the haze of Velis’s fever. She felt herself lifted, jostled against Garrach’s chest, the hard plates of his Vanguard armor digging into her side. The world spun, a dizzying blur of stone corridors, the shouts of other men, and the rhythmic thump of Garrach’s heavy boots. She tried to speak, to tell him about the beast-gland distillates, the cure, the fail-safe, but her mouth tasted of copper and grit, venting only a dry rattle. The medical ward was a horror of dim light and stale blood, smelling of sulfur and fear. The air hung heavy with the groans of the wounded, the hushed prayers of the dying. Surgeon Vornen, a gaunt man with eyes like chipped slate, looked up from a soldier’s mangled arm, his gaze falling upon Velis with a familiar, weary cynicism. His hands, though stained with gore, moved with a practiced, almost bored efficiency. “Trench-chill, Captain?” Vornen’s voice was raspy, unimpressed. “Another one. They’re dropping like flies. Take ‘him’ to the treatment slab.” He gestured with a bloodied scalpel toward a grimy stone table in the corner, where the last patient had clearly been hosed down without much care. Garrach didn’t release Velis. He carried her directly to the slab, lowering her with an unnatural tenderness. “This one, Vornen, is different. You will save ‘him’.” His voice was a low growl, vibrating with lethal promise that froze the room. The other wounded men fell silent, sensing the perilous edge in the captain's tone. Vornen merely scoffed, picking up a heavy ice-pick from a tray. “They all think they’re special, Commander. It’s a fever. The only thing that works is ice-shock, if they’re lucky enough for their heart not to give out first.” He moved toward Velis, his eyes assessing the black veins that now crawled up her neck, disappearing beneath her ear. “Bindings are too tight. Can’t risk restricting blood flow if we’re plunging ‘him’ into the ice tub.” Velis’s eyes dragged open, her frame shaking violently. “No… Vornen…” Her voice was a cracked whisper, barely audible above the rising clamor of her own blood in her ears. She remembered the cure, the beast distillates, the secret buried in her mind, but the words broke on a bloody cough. Vornen ignored her, his attention already on the rough wool tunic. With a swift, practiced motion, he plunged his blunted shears into the fabric, ripping it open from collar to waist. The cold air hit Velis’s skin, sharp and unforgiving. She gasped, the sound raw and strangled. Before she could react, Vornen’s hands were on her, untying the tightly bound linen that had hidden her secret for so long. He worked quickly, efficiently, slicing through the stiff cloth, revealing the pale, slender curve of her chest. The flattened bandages fell away, exposing what lay beneath. Garrach, who had stepped back toward the supply lockers, wheeled around with a scrape of iron plates. He drew his trench sword, his gaze sweeping the floor for whatever threat had worsened Velid's condition. His gaze swept across the ward, past the groaning casualties, past the blood-stained instruments, until it landed on Velis. On the slab. On Vornen, kneeling beside her, his shears still in hand. And then, on what Vornen had just revealed. The delicate curve of her breast, the pale skin, the undeniable truth that shimmered in the dim light. Every agonizing, confusing month. Every desperate, self-loathing internal battle. Every blind date. Every surge of forbidden longing. Every moment of terror and attraction and desperate denial. It all shattered. Not slowly, not with dawning realization, but with the force of a thunderbolt. An explosion of understanding so profound it stole the air from his lungs. It wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t broken. She was a woman. His Velid was a woman. Relief struck him like a blow, staggering his footing. It was immediate, intoxicating, and fiercely, devastatingly passionate. His entire body hummed with a violent, possessive surge, a terrifying, lethal protectiveness that made every muscle tense, every nerve sing. The blade in his hand trembled, not with fear, but with a raw, unleashed intensity. His gaze locked onto Vornen. The surgeon, who had been about to turn Velis for the ice-shock, froze. He looked from Velis’s exposed chest to Garrach’s face, then back again, his own cynical expression slowly morphing into something akin to alarm. “Sir… I… I was just…” Vornen stammered, his usual composure abandoning him. He knew. He saw the fire in Garrach’s eyes, the possessive glint, the sudden, violent shift in the air. The martial decree against women in the ranks—an assured hanging for both of them if reported—hung thick between them. Garrach strode across the ward, his boots echoing like hammer blows. He stopped beside the slab, his massive frame casting Vornen into shadow. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble, each word dripping with venom. “You speak of this to a single soul, Vornen, and I will gut you like a fish, slow enough for you to feel every incision. Understand?” His blade, still drawn, rose slightly, its point glinting inches from Vornen’s throat. Vornen swallowed hard, staring at the steel. “Understood. My oath as a surgeon covers all, regardless of… circumstance.” He dropped his shears, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “But the trench-chill… the black veins… her fever is too high. The ice-shock will either kill her or leave her a husk. She needs a pure beast-gland vial. Something to stabilize her core temperature, to purge the corruption before dawn.” “A beast-gland tincture?” Garrach’s voice was hoarse, his gaze fixed on Velis’s still form, her shallow, rapid breathing the only sign of life. “Where can I find such a thing?” Vornen hesitated. “Only one place in the Skarn Vanguard holds such a supply. Quartermaster Varus's private armory. He hoards them for experimental weapons development. It’s under heavy guard, sealed with more wards than a crypt. No one gets in without his direct authorization. Especially not for a common fever remedy.” Garrach’s gaze drifted from Velis’s face to the scarred, bloodied back of the ward, where the wounded groaned. He thought of Jom, still feverish in the next cell, and the dozens of others who would soon share Velis’s fate. This wasn’t just for her. It was for all of them. But Varus would never allow it. Not a chance. The steel in Garrach’s grip tightened. The armory. Varus. It was a death sentence. A trap. But Velis was dying. And now, knowing her truth, knowing the lie he had lived, there was nothing he wouldn't do. He had to walk in alone. Into Varus’s heavily guarded, private beast armory. And he had to walk out with the cure.

The Surgeon's Blade