A shout cuts through the mud and moaning. Two soldiers grab my arms before I can react, dragging me past the triage tents toward a larger, darker structure at the edge of the camp.

Their grip is rough. Professional.

They're not taking me for questioning.

They shove me inside. The tent smells of iron and rot. A lantern swings overhead, casting long shadows across a cot where a man sits—blood soaking through a makeshift bandage wrapped around his shoulder. His face is sharp, angular, the kind of face you memorize for reasons that have nothing to do with mercy.

I know him.

Commander Damian. Cold. Stealthy. Smart.

Not cold enough. Not stealthy enough. Not smart enough.