The giant guard’s eyes, the color of flint, narrowed on Ilsa. A rough hand seized her arm, hauling her to her feet with a jolt that sent pain lancing through her shoulder. Her knees, still unsteady from the battlefield’s lingering tremor, almost buckled. She stumbled, then caught herself, Grisha’s earlier praise still echoing, a strange, disorienting sound amidst the chaos.
“Commander Grisha, explain,” the hawk-nosed guard demanded, his gaze fixed on Ilsa, assessing, dissecting. His voice held no warmth, only a demand for facts.
Grisha pushed forward, his massive frame eclipsing Ilsa for a moment. “The man, Sergeant Borik. His femoral artery was severed. A death sentence, we all thought. But this… this serf, she cinched a cloth tight around the limb, above the wound. Tighter than any man would dare. Halted the flow. Saved him.” He spoke with a blunt conviction that silenced the murmuring legionaries nearby.
The guard’s gaze intensified on Ilsa. “A peasant with knowledge of vessels? Unlikely. Fortune, more like. The gods intervene for even the lowliest.”
“Fortune does not stem a fatal bleed,” Ilsa retorted, the words surprising even herself. Her voice, thin but clear, cut through the din of the camp. She felt a tremor of fear, but a deeper, more primal frustration at the dismissal of her hard-won surgical skill solidified her resolve. “It was not fortune. It was knowing how blood flows, and how to restrict it.”
The guard scoffed, but a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. “We shall see what the Emperor makes of your theories.”
She was marched, not gently, through the sprawling encampment. The Voryan legions were a hive of relentless activity even after battle. Hammers rang against metal, men barked orders, the scent of smoke and unwashed bodies hung heavy in the air. The wounded were being tended to, crude bandages applied, groans echoing from the makeshift aid stations. Ilsa saw the glazed eyes of Vex victims, tied to posts, their bodies twitching, their minds already lost. A cold dread settled in her stomach. So many lives wasted, so much suffering.
They halted before a structure unlike any other. Stretched canvas of deep crimson and charcoal grey hung across visible struts of dark, gleaming iron. Intricate brass fittings held the panels together, and a massive, stylized eagle, wrought from polished bronze, adorned the entrance flap. This was no common field office; it was a mobile palace, a marvel of frontier engineering that spoke of the Emperor’s wealth and his obsession with both might and efficiency.
The lead guard pulled aside the heavy flap, revealing an interior that defied the rugged exterior. The ground was covered with thick, felted rugs. A large, polished oak table dominated the center, maps spread across its surface, illuminated by several oil lamps hanging from iron hooks. The air inside was warmer, cleaner, subtly scented with pine and parchment.
And there he was. Kazimir Voronin. He stood by the table, his back to them, studying a map. His uniform was dark, unadorned except for the silver eagle clasping his cloak. His posture radiated an almost predatory stillness. He turned slowly, his movement fluid, deliberate. His face was sharp, chiseled, framed by dark hair that fell just to his collar. But it was his eyes that held her. They were the color of glacial ice, piercing and intelligent, missing nothing. He was younger than she expected, perhaps in his late twenties, but carried the grim air of an ancient dynasty. An iron eagle, indeed.
Stellan, the legion scout Ilsa had seen earlier, stood to one side, leaning against a tent pole, a cynical smirk playing on his lips. His gaze, too, was fixed on her, assessing her like a particularly unpromising specimen.
“Your report, Varok,” Kazimir said, his voice a low rumble, devoid of inflection. It drew silence without effort.
Varok, the hawk-nosed guard, recited Grisha’s account with detached precision, detailing the severed artery and Ilsa’s crude, yet effective, intervention. He concluded, “Commander Grisha vouches for her, my liege. Claims she stanched the bleeding.”
Kazimir’s icy gaze swept over Ilsa, a prolonged, unsettling appraisal. “A serf, you say? From the Vorlag estates?”
“Yes, sire,” Varok confirmed.
“And you claim to have quenched a fatal bleed with a strip of cloth?” Kazimir’s voice was calm, but the underlying challenge was unmistakable. “A skill unknown even to my most learned healers, who speak of the humors and the evils of the blood. What peasant charm did you use, girl?”
Ilsa’s stomach twisted, but a stubborn defiance hardened her gaze. This was a man who saw her as less than nothing, a superstition-ridden serf. She took a breath, recalling her medical lectures, the clear, logical pathways of anatomy. “No charm, my liege. The body holds within it a life force, the blood. If that blood leaves the body too quickly, the vessel empties, and the life force dissipates. The heart pumps, pushing the blood, and if a path is opened, the blood rushes out. By pressing tightly above the opening, you close that path, preventing the loss.”
Kazimir raised an eyebrow, a subtle shift that drew a sharp quiet over the tent. He pushed away from the table, his movements precise. “You speak of the body as a vessel, and blood as a flow. Not humors, not spirit? You contradict centuries of accepted wisdom.” There was no anger in his voice, only intense curiosity, a dangerous, calculating interest.
“I speak of what I observed, Your Majesty. The blood pulsed from the wound, precisely as the heart beat. When the fountain was pinched, the man lived. When it is allowed to continue, he dies.” She kept her voice even, flat and measured, as if reciting clinical data.
Kazimir walked slowly around her, his eyes never leaving her face. Ilsa felt like an insect under a microscope. “And how do you know this? Did some forest spirit whisper it into your ear, little serf?” The mockery was light, but sharp.
“I learned it,” Ilsa stated, omitting the centuries and the world that had taught her. “By watching. By reasoning.”
Kazimir paused in front of her. His hand, long and elegant, reached out, not to touch her, but to trace a line in the air, indicating her head. “A mind that reasons, in the wilds of Vorlag. Fascinating.” He paused, then turned to Varok. “Release her arm, Varok. Give her space.”
Varok immediately complied. Ilsa rubbed her arm, a faint ache remaining.
Kazimir’s gaze softened infinitesimally, though his eyes remained sharp. “You speak of understanding the body. Of preventing death. The Vex, then. Do you understand that as well?”
Ilsa hesitated. “I have seen the afflicted, Your Majesty. Their symptoms suggest not a curse, but an affliction of the mind and body. A malady, perhaps. Not a demonic possession.” She knew how radical that sounded, how dangerous.
A ripple went through the guards. Stellan, by the tent pole, actually chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. Kazimir, however, showed no surprise. Only a deeper gleam in his eyes.
“A contagion,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “My healers call it the Shadowblight. The Old Believers, the Forest’s Lament. You call it a disease. You claim to have saved a man from a certain death with a strip of cloth. You claim the Vex is a mere illness.” His voice hardened, steel entering the glacial tone. “Prove it.”
He gestured to Varok. “Varok, find her a tent. A small one, suitable for a… field laboratory. And bring her three of the Vex-touched. The ones deemed incurable. The ones we were going to execute tomorrow for the good of the legion.” His eyes bored into Ilsa’s. “If you save them, truly cure them of this ‘disease,’ you will be granted your freedom, and whatever resources you need to pursue this… odd craft. If you fail, if they die, or if they remain blighted, your head will be on the chopping block instead of theirs. A fair trade, wouldn’t you say, serf?”
Air scraped in Ilsa's throat. Freedom. A chance to build The Bastion, to stop the suffering. But three Vex-touched, incurable cases, without a single modern tool. This was a death sentence, elegantly disguised. Yet, a spark ignited within her. This was her chance. Her only chance.
“I accept, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said, her voice firmer than she felt.
Kazimir nodded, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. “Excellent. Let us see if your unique mind is a blessing, or merely a fleeting curiosity.”
She was led away, back into the night, the cold bite of his terms settling over her shoulders. As she passed Stellan, she heard his low murmur to another guard, a chilling whisper that cut through the camp’s sounds. “The Emperor just handed a stray dog a leash long enough to hang herself.”
The burning question pulsed in her mind, a frantic beat against her ribs: Could she truly apply modern medicine in a world utterly devoid of its tools, its lore, its simplest mechanics?