It was not every day that a lord stumbled into the medics' tent of the White Army , and certainly not the commander of the Hounds.
The tent's air was filled with the reek of blood, sweat, and boiled water. But even all that stench was drowned out by the voice of Agalosios, head of the White Army's medical corps.
"Hold the lord down!" he barked, slamming his tools on the table.
Egil blood-soaked, pale, but still glaring like a cornered wolf , snarled back, "Hurry up, damn you! I don't have time for this. Can't you hear the battle outside?"
Agalosios didn't even look up. He was already pouring burning alcohol into the wound, clearing the blood enough to see what he feared.
The artery...it was slashed.
