I tell Boris I have a man in the infirmary.
He doesn’t ask questions. He raises his hand, lets out a sharp whistle that cuts through the hall like a blade, and a soldier materializes from sowhere behind the pillars.
"Take them to the infirmary and report back for orders."
The soldier confirms with a single, crisp motion I’ve never seen outside this place. His right palm strikes flat against his left shoulder. His left fist crosses his stomach, locking against the inside of his right elbow.
It’s a salute that covers the entire torso. Like shielding your vitals while showing respect. Practical and paranoid. Lost Ark in a single gesture.
"This way, please," he says.
Unlike Jacob and Lex, this one wears the sa monastery robes but layered underneath with fitted leather armor and thin tal plating that ornants every joint and seam. The craftsmanship is handmade—painstaking, deliberate, the kind of quality that only exists when people have too much ti and not enough material to waste a single cut.
We step through the main doors.
The city has transford.
Whatever sleepy, scarred settlent we walked through twenty minutes ago is gone. In its place is a machine waking up.
People are sprinting through the streets, but they aren’t running for cover. They aren’t boarding up windows or barricading doors.
They’re running toward sothing.
Citizens who were sitting in doorways minutes ago are pouring out of their hos fully dressed for combat—mismatched armor, scavenged weapons, hard faces.
They funnel into a long, orderly line stretching toward a massive stone warehouse, where robed officials distribute rations and ammunition with chanical efficiency.
No shouting. No chaos. No confusion.
This is an orchestra that has rehearsed the sa symphony a hundred tis.
Further down, in the central plaza, soldiers in the sa armored monastery gear as our guide are assembling into clear battalion formations.
So climb a wide stone staircase toward the top of the great wall. I follow their path upward and spot the machinery—heavy, repeating ballistae mounted at strategic intervals along the ramparts, their iron fras bolted directly into the stonework.
They’re lucky. The city’s back is pressed against a sheer cliff face. One side they don’t need to defend.
Nature did the engineering for them.
An entire mounted battalion of Ferredons crosses our path at full gallop, the riders low in their saddles, heading straight for the main gate. The animals’ lurching, ostrich-legged gait kicks up a wall of dust that forces Lola to shield her face with her sleeve.
A war machine, I think, watching the cavalry disappear around the corner. A literal standing army built from scratch by people who were never supposed to survive long enough to need one.
I need to understand their strategy. How have they held this city against sothing called the "Great Red Tide".
Not once, but repeatedly? What’s the defensive doctrine? What are the casualty projections? How do they replenish?
But first, Oliver.
The infirmary is controlled chaos. dics in robes move between rows of beds, organizing bandages, positioning stretchers, sorting glass vials by color into wooden racks. The preparation is textbook field hospital—triage stations, supply chains, clear lanes for incoming wounded.
They’ve done this before. Many tis.
Our escort snaps the chest-covering salute in my direction and disappears down the corridor at a dead sprint.
I find Oliver and Brendon near the back wall. Oliver is sitting upright on a cot, his left leg elevated on a stack of folded blankets, the calf wrapped in blood-soaked bandages.
Brendon is sitting beside him, arms crossed, looking like a man guarding a vault.
Lola spots them first. She jogs over and crouches beside Oliver’s cot, staring at the crimson-stained wrapping with clinical interest.
"He’s leaking like you, Uncle." She tilts her head. "Does a band-aid fix it?"
I pat her head. "He needs sothing stronger first."
Lola grins. She knows what’s coming.
Oliver looks up at . His face is gray, his breathing shallow, but the fire in his eyes hasn’t gone out.
"It’s bad, Dryden," he says. "I’m done."
"You have damage, not a death sentence. Every tool can be repaired."
Oliver lets out a weak laugh. Then his expression shifts. "What was that horn earlier? Sounded like a cargo ship dying."
"A siren," I say. "We’re about to be attacked."
He imdiately tries to push himself off the cot.
I press my hand flat against his chest and shove him back down. "You heal first."
"How many are coming? This place looks like a warti field hospital."
I flag down a passing nurse. "I need a splint and a cloth wrap."
"Around a few dozen..." I say to him, keeping my voice casual.
Oliver exhales, his body visibly relaxing. He eases himself back against the thin pillow, the tension draining from his shoulders. A few dozen. Manageable. His expression says he’s already doing the math on how to fight from a cot if he has to.
I wait for the nurse to hand the supplies.
"Dozen of thousands," I finish.
Oliver’s eyes go wide. His mouth opens. Nothing cos out.
I take the splint and wrap the cloth tightly around it, creating a thick, padded cylinder. I hold it up in front of his face.
"Say ah."
Oliver stares at the wrapped splint like I just asked him to swallow a grenade. "What are you—"
"Open your mouth, Oliver."
He obeys. I shove the padded splint between his teeth.
"Bite."
His jaw clamps down, confusion and dread fighting for control of his expression.
I unwrap the blood-soaked bandage from his calf, exposing the wound. The shark bite is ugly—a deep, crescent-shaped gash of torn muscle and exposed tissue, still weeping blood despite the dics’ initial work.
I pull an Accelerated Healing Potion from my inventory.
Beside , Lola covers her mouth with both hands, her shoulders shaking, trying to physically contain the laughter building inside her. Her eyes are streaming.
I pour the viscous liquid directly into the open wound.
The sound is revolting. A violent, hissing sizzle, exactly like cold water hitting a pan of boiling grease. The sll is worse. Fried pork and burnt hair filling the imdiate vicinity, making the nearest nurses physically recoil.
Oliver’s scream cos out muffled through the splint, but the raw volu puts the city’s war siren to sha. His back arches off the cot, every muscle in his body locking rigid. Tears stream from his eyes. His fists grip the edges of the mattress so hard the wooden fra cracks.
The potion does its work. The torn muscle fibers knit together with agonizing speed, new tissue crawling across the wound like accelerated ti-lapse footage.
The bleeding stops. The flesh seals.
Oliver collapses back onto the cot, drenched in sweat, the splint still clenched between his teeth. He pulls it out with a trembling hand and drops it on the floor.
He stares at the ceiling, breathing in ragged gasps.
"Be ready in five minutes," I tell him, clipping the empty vial back to my belt. "We’re going to fight."
Oliver lets out a groan that carries the weight of a man who has been asked to do the impossible by soone who will absolutely not accept no as an answer.
"Your heart is sharper than your hamr, you stubborn old bastard," I say, already turning toward the door. "Use it."
Oliver mutters sothing behind that I choose not to hear.
I gather the squad with a look. Rhayne falls into step. Lola skips. Brendon helps Oliver to his feet.
We have five minutes. A limping farr, a bleeding squish girl, a child with a cannon, and a dead man walking in borrowed boots.
Lost Ark doesn’t know what’s coming.
Neither do I.
User Comments
0 comments from readers