We reach Velia at dusk, trudging along the damp coastal road with what remains of our spirits. The skyline, once a welcome sight of tiled rooftops and winding alleyways, feels oddly somber under the fading light. Perhaps it is the weariness in my own bones, or the collective grief of those who survived the Western Guard Camp's fall, but Velia no longer seems the bustling safe haven I remember. It stands instead like a place between battles, haunted by news not yet fully told.
Captain Cliff, limping on a bandaged leg, leads our diminished party past the watchful eyes of Velia's guards. At the head of them stands Abelin, the stern-faced watchman who has taken charge here before. He meets Cliff's gaze in silent acknowledgment. No festivities greet us—only guarded, pitying looks and whispers of shock as villagers realize how few of us have returned.
Most of our wounded reach the village in urgent need of treatment. Velia's makeshift infirmary—set up in a storehouse near the docks—quickly becomes crowded with battered men, many still coughing from the slog through mud and rain. Locals rush to help, bringing blankets, boiled water, and what little bandages they have. I spot Isolde among them, sleeves rolled up, directing people with a firm but kind efficiency. We haven't seen her face since she helped load shipments at the docks, back when life was simpler. Yet here she is, taking charge of the crisis without a shred of hesitation.
Meanwhile, Cliff and Abelin confer in hushed tones by the main gate. From the snatches of conversation I catch, they are sending a handful of able-bodied survivors to carry word farther inland—perhaps to Heidel or even beyond. But for now, the rest of us remain in Velia, to rest and to mend wounds that run deeper than any of us wish to admit.
I am relieved; Edan needs care far more than endless marching. He has been half-unconscious throughout the journey, propped up between two soldiers. Each time we halt for a breather, I check him for fever or bleeding. The dryness in his lips, the bruises on his ribs—it all reminds me of how close we came to losing him back at the camp. Even now, as he lies on a straw pallet in the cramped storehouse, he looks too pale, too still.
Elias hovers near me, his usual confident posture frayed at the edges. He says little, but every now and then, I catch him glancing at Edan with the same anxious energy I feel. It is as if we both expect him to stop breathing at any moment.
The storehouse reeks of old fish and stale air, with oil lanterns hung from the rafters to give enough light for the makeshift healers. I find a spot near the back, out of the way of busier sections where men groan and cough. Edan's chest rises and falls in shallow, restless motions. Mud and dried blood cling to his clothing—no one has had the time to strip and properly clean him yet.
"Has he come around at all?" Elias murmurs, seating himself on an upturned crate beside me.
I shake my head. "Not since this morning, when we forced some water down his throat. He was barely coherent."
He exhales, rubbing at the dried spots on his sleeves. "We can't keep him like this for long. He needs proper medicine."
I nod. Word in the camp is that Velia does have a few adept villagers who know herbs and basic remedies, but they are already overwhelmed with the flood of injuries. Though they tend to Edan as best they can—cleaning his wound, stitching torn flesh—he remains unresponsive.
Outside, the sound of shouting indicates another wave of casualties being brought in. With a grimace, Elias rises to check if we can scrounge more clean bandages. In his absence, I sit quietly by Edan's side, trying not to flinch each time he gasps in pain during a fitful dream.
Night falls properly, and a hush settles across the village. Even the gulls quiet, their usual cries replaced by the distant shush of waves against the wharf. Most of Velia's folk have done what they can for the wounded, then retreat to their homes to snatch some rest. Torches flicker along the waterfront, revealing silhouettes of half-unloaded carts—supplies hurriedly collected in case of another threat.
Captain Cliff makes a brief visit to the storehouse, checking on those who fought under his command. The injuries vary: broken limbs, cracked ribs, infected gashes. Some men have lost their eyes, or an ear, or worse. Cliff stoically clasps each soldier's shoulder in turn, offering words of muted encouragement. Even he seems unsure whether his presence gives any comfort. Perhaps all that truly matters is that we are alive—although alive feels like a hollow victory after witnessing how many died.
Eventually, Cliff stops beside me. He looks down at Edan, then at me. "He's a stubborn one."
"Yes, sir," I reply, my voice low. "He… wanted to stand and fight until the last. If we hadn't pulled him out—"
Cliff's nod cuts me off gently. "He's done more than most. Let him rest. Velia's healers will do what they can."
Part of me wants to ask about the next steps—what about Red Nose? Will he strike Velia next? Where do we stand with Heidel? But Cliff's face holds that rigid calm of a man who has no immediate answers. So I say nothing, watching as he moves on to speak to another wounded soldier.
Sometime past midnight, Elias finds me dozing against a wall. He taps my shoulder lightly.
"How's Edan?" he asks.
"Still out," I murmur, blinking sleep from my eyes. "He's breathing a bit steadier, though."
Elias rakes a hand through his damp hair, glancing down at our companion. For a moment, the flicker of torchlight catches something unguarded in his expression—worry, guilt, maybe both. Then he clears his throat, shifting his weight.
"Abelin and Cliff have decided," he says softly. "We're not all heading to Heidel. Not yet. It's too risky to move these men in such a state. They're sending a small party in the morning with a message. The rest of us… wait here, build our strength."
I nod. Relieved, albeit overshadowed by the knowledge that if Red Nose's army roams the region, we aren't entirely safe. Yet Velia is better than nothing—barricaded enough by the coastline and the villagers' caution. If the Imps do come, at least we will see them approach along the roads or beaches.
"Good," I say. "Edan can't be moved like this. He might not survive a long march."
A beat of silence. Then Elias lets out a sigh. "He will survive," he says, as though daring fate to challenge him. "He's too damn persistent to die here."
His certainty gives me something I want to believe. So I do. I close my eyes, nodding.
We set up a small watch rotation among the battered survivors. Even though Velia's own guard patrols the village's perimeter, none of us feel right leaving it all to them. We huddle near the storehouse's entrance, drifting in and out of uneasy slumber. Each cough or groan from inside sends a spike of anxiety through my chest, a constant reminder of how fragile we are—how close we came to utter ruin.
In the deeper hours of night, when the shadows stretch blackest and only a few lanterns glow, I wake from a brief doze to find Edan stirring. I rush to his side, my heart hammering. His eyelids flutter, and for the second time that day, he seems aware—if only barely.
He swallows, then grimaces. "Water…?"
I bring a cup to his lips, careful not to spill. His throat bobs as he drinks, each swallow a strained effort.
"Thank you," he manages, his voice as thin as worn parchment. For a moment, he looks around the dimly lit storehouse, confusion crossing his features. "We're… in Velia?"
"Yes. You're safe," I answer, leaning closer. "We'll stay here until you're stronger. Cliff's arranged it with Abelin."
Edan closes his eyes in relief—or exhaustion. "Good," he breathes. "I—I need time… to think. About… Red Nose. About… everything."
He lets out a shaky sigh, then his voice fades into half-conscious mumbling. His body slackens, drifting back toward uneasy sleep. At least he seems less feverish.
Outside, dawn's faint glow creeps into the sky. Despite the pain, the loss, and the lingering threat of an enemy we barely understand, we have a moment of respite.
And we are still alive. Still breathing.