Esteban and the soldiers carried Ramiro into the heart of the camp, his unconscious form pale beneath the flickering torchlight.
Elena and Luzia followed closely behind, their footsteps hurried, their breaths uneven. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Soldiers parted as they passed, their eyes shadowed with concern.
Inside a tent reinforced with thick canvas, the soldiers laid Ramiro carefully on the camp bed. His robes were soaked through, dark with blood. Esteban knelt beside him at once, pressing his hands over the wound.
A soft, golden glow bloomed between his fingers, magic surging through his veins. Light seeped into torn flesh, attempting to mend what had been ravaged. Yet—
The wound refused to close.
Esteban's breath hitched. His magic flowed stronger, but the gash remained stubbornly open, blood pooling beneath Ramiro's limp form.
"This is bad," he muttered, his brow creased with frustration. "His wound isn't closing up…"
