The weather in the Blood-soaked Highlands was as bleak and heavy as ever.
Unlike the rest of the soldiers camped beside the lake, the severely wounded were settled into a handful of nearby homes for better care.
One such home now had a crowd gathered outside—soldiers of the Eagle Army, mostly from Commander Mosington's First Battalion. Their faces were filled with unease. When they saw Rus approaching, they silently made way for him, saluting as he passed.
Rus returned the gesture with a nod and stepped into the house.
The moment he entered, the stench of rot hit him—a thick, sour odor that could only come from a festering wound.
The small room was packed. Erik, Simon, Link, and even Weston were there, all huddled around the bedside, chatting casually with Mosington. They were recounting their recent experiences in the Highlands—two brutal battles, countless small skirmishes—as if it were nothing more than a friendly gathering.
They smiled, they joked, they bantered.
