Reuben was carried into his chambers on a stretcher, his body limp, his breathing shallow. The royal physicians swarmed over him like vultures over a battlefield, their hands slick with ointments, salves, and blood. The air stank of iron, sweat, and crushed herbs.
"The legs…" one physician whispered after peeling away the makeshift splints. His face drained of color. "Shattered. Even if he survives, he may never walk again." He murmured, shaking his head.
Another bent low, examining the crude but effective stitches that bound the torn flesh together. "Who realigned the bones and did these sutures?" the head physician asked, astonishment clear in his tone.
Jethru, still spattered with another man's blood from saving the royal guard, even if it was Orion that Lara had begged, glanced up with cool indifference. "Why do you ask?"
