The towering walls of the city come into view, their familiar silhouette rising above the horizon like a promise of safety. The group approaches the gates, the Namuras trudging forward with a heaviness that mirrors the exhaustion of their riders.
The guards stationed at the entrance straighten immediately upon seeing the procession.
Their eyes widen at the sight of the blood-streaked gear of the hunters and the dark stains marring the Namuras' saddles and flanks.
Without hesitation, one of the guards steps forward, his voice firm yet urgent. "Clear the path to the infirmary! Make way!" he calls out, waving for everyone to make way.
Another guard breaks into a sprint toward the city, a brass bell in hand.
The loud clang of the bell echoes through the streets, its rhythmic toll a signal that all citizens understand. As the hunters pass through the gates, the streets begin to part like a river before them.
People pause in their daily routines, stepping back respectfully to allow the wounded procession to move forward. Conversations cease, the usual bustling energy replaced by a heavy, reverent silence.
Faces peer out from windows and doorways, some wide-eyed with curiosity, others shadowed with quiet sorrow as they take in the bloodied, battered state of the returning group.
The Namuras' heavy footfalls resound against the cobblestones, the only sound accompanying the solemn toll of the bell. A child reaches for her mother's hand, her innocent eyes filled with questions she doesn't yet know how to ask.
An elderly man removes his hat, bowing his head as the hunters pass by. The crowd's silence is not one of fear, but of respect—an acknowledgment of the sacrifice these men and women make to keep the city walls safe.
As they near the infirmary, the guards who had run ahead stand ready, guiding the Namuras toward the wide courtyard where medics and priests await with hurried urgency, their faces grim but determined.
The hunters dismount, though many stagger from their own injuries.
Those still capable of standing carry their comrades inside, their faces hardened. Civilians step in where they can, lifting stretchers or supporting the less severely wounded. The scene is one of organized chaos, voices overlapping with shouts for bandages, salves and stretchers echoing across the stone walls of the infirmary.
Not all the hunters had survived the journey. A grim realization settles over the group as they gently lower the bodies of the fallen to the ground, their blanketed forms a sobering reminder of the cost of their mission.
A young medic, her face pale, kneels beside one of the unmoving hunters, pressing her trembling fingers to his neck. She shakes her head solemnly, whispering a prayer under her breath before motioning for a priest to prepare rites.
The grief is palpable but unspoken, a quiet understanding shared among those who bear the weight of such losses.
Inside the infirmary, the scene is no less chaotic. Beds fill quickly, leaving some of the wounded to be placed on hastily arranged mats along the stone floors.
Hunters, medics and even civilians work side by side, tending to injuries ranging from deep gashes and burns to the raw stumps of severed limbs. The groans of the injured mix with the hurried instructions of the healers, creating a grim symphony of survival.
In one corner, a group of hunters lay their comrade down, his face pale and his breathing shallow. His chest rises and falls weakly, his armor still sticky with blood. A civilian woman, her arms laden with bandages, hesitates for a moment before stepping forward.
Without a word, she kneels and begins cleaning the wounds, her hands steady despite the clear fear in her eyes. Across the room, a priest murmurs blessings over another who has already succumbed, their comrades standing silently nearby with bowed heads.
The weight of the battle lingers in every corner of the infirmary, but so too does the resilience of those who survived. Despite the loss, despite the pain, there is movement, healing and the faint but steady hum of life pushing forward.
Eska walks slowly through the infirmary, her footsteps light as if she's afraid to disturb the fragile balance of the scene before her. Her eyes dart from one bed to the next, taking in the wounded hunters lying pale and battered.
Some are bandaged tightly, their faces twisted in pain as medics work hurriedly around them. Others are still, their blanketed forms marking the finality of their sacrifice. The air is thick with the scent of blood and herbs, a somber reminder of what they've endured.
Eska's heart clenches as she notices a young hunter gripping another's hand, his whispered words of reassurance barely audible over the low hum of activity.
She moves further in, her gaze landing on a civilian woman dabbing at a hunter's forehead with a damp cloth. The hunter flinches, his arm bandaged tightly to his side, but he nods his gratitude.
Nearby, a medic stitches a deep gash on another's leg, their hands steady even as exhaustion paints dark circles under their eyes. Eska stops for a moment, her gaze lingering on the scene.
For a brief second, she thinks back to the battle, the chaos and bloodshed and the sheer determination that had kept them all alive. Her claws flex involuntarily, the faint glow from her bloodcraft still faintly visible, but she quickly hides her hands under her arms.
She continues her silent walk, her attention drawn to a priest standing over a fallen hunter, murmuring a quiet prayer. Eska swallows hard, her throat tight as she watches the priest place a small token on the hunter's chest—a symbol of their sacrifice.
A few steps away, she notices a child, no older than ten, carrying a basket of herbs toward a group of medics. The child's small figure, dwarfed by the grim surroundings, seems so out of place.
Eska feels her chest tighten, her breath catching as the weight of it all bears down on her. For all the chaos and suffering, there's a quiet strength in the way everyone moves—working, healing, grieving.
It's a testament to their resilience and Eska can't help but feel both humbled and overwhelmed by the sight.
As Eska drifts through the infirmary, lost in the overwhelming weight of the suffering around her, Valen's voice cuts through her thoughts.
"Eska," he calls gently, standing by the entrance to one of the quieter hallways. She turns toward him, her expression still shadowed with the grim scenes she's just witnessed.
"Come with me," Valen says, gesturing for her to follow. He leads her past a row of rooms, stopping at one with the door slightly ajar.
Inside, a group of hunters sits together, their wounds bandaged but their faces alight with relief and camaraderie. One of them gestures animatedly, retelling a moment from the battle with exaggerated movements that draw laughter from the others.
The sound, warm and genuine, contrasts sharply with the somber air of the main hall. "See that?" Valen says softly, his gaze steady on her. "They fought through hell but they're here. Alive. They'll return to their families, their friends. Because of what we all did out there."
He walks further down the hallway, stopping again to gesture at a corner where a recovering hunter is sitting with two civilians—perhaps family, perhaps friends.
The hunter's voice is low but steady as he explains what happened in the hive, his hands motioning to illustrate the battle. The civilians listen intently, their faces filled with pride rather than fear.
"This," Valen continues. "This is why we fight. Not for the glory, not for the thrill but for these moments. For the people who get to live another day because of the choices we made."
Eska watches in silence as Valen shows her more: a young acolyte smiling faintly as a medic rewraps his arm, a group of civilians thanking a hunter for what they went through, a priest blessing a recovering hunter with words of encouragement.
The weight in her chest begins to ease, though it doesn't vanish entirely.
Valen turns to her, his voice quieter now. "Today wasn't just about loss, Eska. It was about ensuring the city doesn't end up like the encampment. It's about protecting lives, even if it costs us dearly. That's why this was a victory, not a defeat."
Eska meets his gaze, her lips pressing into a faint but understanding smile as his words finally begin to sink in.
Eska stares at Valen for a long moment. Her hands twitch at her sides, clenched into fists as if trying to contain everything she's feeling.
Without warning, she takes a step forward and wraps her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. The motion is sudden, almost desperate and Valen freezes for a moment before his arms slowly come up to hold her in return.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her voice muffled.
Her tears begin to soak through his shirt as her shoulders shake, the weight of everything finally breaking through her guarded exterior. "I'm sorry for everything I couldn't do…"
Her voice falters and Valen tightens his hold on her, his steady presence grounding her spiraling emotions.
"You don't have to apologize," Valen says softly, his voice steady and warm. "You did everything you could and that's why we are here."
His hand rests gently on the back of her head, letting her cry as much as she needs to. Around them, the bustle of the infirmary continues, but in this moment, it all seems to fade into the background.
She doesn't speak again, her sobs growing quieter as the tears finally begin to slow. When she finally pulls back, her face still damp and her eyes red, Valen looks down at her with an expression of quiet understanding. She tries to muster a smile, a faint glimmer of gratitude breaking through her exhaustion.
"Thank you," she whispers.
Valen doesn't reply immediately. Instead, he gently lifts a hand to brush a stray tear from her cheek, his fingers lingering for a moment before settling on her shoulder. His gaze meets hers, steady yet softened with something deeper, something unspoken.
"We'll get through this, Eska," he murmurs. "One step at a time."
Her breath hitches at the weight of his words, her tear-streaked face searching his for something she doesn't quite know how to name.
Slowly, she nods, her lips curving into a faint but genuine smile as the raw ache in her chest eases. The space between them feels smaller now, the world beyond fading into insignificance as they stand there, holding each other's gaze.
For the first time since discovering the nest, hope flickers to life—not just a fragile ember, but a growing light shared between them.