The temple doors were open, but the inside felt like it was breathing suffering.

  Within, the chaos was silent and solemn: the wounded moaned on makeshift mats, priests moved like shadows between bodies, and the scent of blood mingled with incense burning in desperation. It was the kind of smell that didn’t wash off with a bath — it clung to the skin, from within.

  Gunnar burst into the hall, breathless, carrying Tovald over his shoulders. The old man's body sagged, soaked in blood, heavy as stone. His head lolled to the side, eyes shut, breathing shallow.

  “Someone!” Gunnar shouted, his voice cracking. “Someone help!”

  But no one came.

  The few priests still standing were kneeling by other bodies, eyes half-closed, hands trembling, nearly fainting from overusing their mana. They were exhausted — all of them.

  That’s when Gunnar saw her. Sitting in the shadow of a column, a woman slowly inhaled from a ceramic pipe. Her eyes were half-lidded, her clothes disheveled. She wasn’t tending to anyone.

  He stormed over.

  “You!” he barked, voice sharp. “Get up! There’s a man here, he’s dying!”

  She raised an eyebrow and removed the pipe from her mouth.

  “I’ve given what I had, boy. No mana, no miracles. I’m sorry.”

  “No! Don’t say that! He’s still alive! Still breathing! You have to do something!” The desperation exploded. His shout echoed through the hall, drawing a few glances.

  “I told you — I can’t,” she said more firmly. “I smoked just to stay upright. Find someone else.”

  “You’re doing nothing!” Gunnar roared, frustration tearing through his throat. “You’re just sitting there while they die!”

  “I’m sitting because if I stand, I’ll collapse!” she snapped, slamming the pipe against the stone floor in barely restrained anger.

  Gunnar let Tovald fall to the floor harder than he meant to. The body hit the ground with a thud. He took a step forward, fists trembling, eyes burning with helpless rage.

  Then a pair of firm hands gripped his shoulders.

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  “Gunnar! Hey!” came a familiar voice. “Stop. Just stop.”

  Julius.

  Covered in blood — not his own — sleeves rolled up, face smudged with soot, but eyes steady. He held Gunnar with more strength than his slim frame suggested.

  “I know. It hurts. But yelling at her won’t help. Look around. Everyone’s doing what they can.”

  Gunnar, shaking, looked at the ground. At Tovald. At the woman. There was no more rage — only fear. Only grief.

  The priestess sighed. She creaked to her feet and looked from Gunnar to Julius, then to the old man on the ground.

  And she saw it. It wasn’t anger. It was desperation. The kind of look only those who’ve held someone dying truly understand.

  She exhaled deeply.

  “Alright. Damn it... fine.”

  She knelt beside Tovald, extending her hands with effort. The light took its time. It was faint, flickering, like a candle about to die. But it came.

  Mana touched the old man. His skin twitched. The bleeding slowed — not stopped, but enough. His breathing grew less erratic. Still weak, but alive.

  The woman collapsed backward, drained, avoiding everyone’s eyes. She sat there a moment, then rose with difficulty, grabbed her pipe, and disappeared between the columns, murmuring:

  “I did what I could.”

  Gunnar knelt beside the old man. Watched his chest rise and fall — slow, steady. He was alive. For now.

  Julius approached quietly, wiping his hands on a cloth tied to his belt.

  “You’re bleeding too,” he said firmly.

  “I’m fine,” Gunnar replied automatically.

  “You’re limping, your thigh’s torn, and your arm’s dripping. That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s ‘gonna pass out in twenty minutes.’”

  Gunnar tried to stand, but Julius sighed and changed his tone.

  “Help me move Tovald. Let’s get him over there by the wall. It’s cooler and shaded.”

  Without a word, Gunnar helped. They lifted the old man with care. His body was heavy with pain. They leaned him against the wall, his head resting on a rolled cloth. The silence between them remained — but it was lighter now.

  “There,” Gunnar muttered.

  “Now you,” Julius said.

  “I told you, I’m—”

  “Sit.”

  The voice wasn’t harsh. Just resolute. And oddly kind.

  Gunnar relented. Sat with a sigh. Julius knelt in front of him, pulling a waterskin and clean cloths.

  “This is gonna sting.”

  And it did.

  The damp cloth touched his cuts, cleaning dried blood, dirt, and pain. Gunnar clenched his teeth but didn’t complain.

  “These two big ones need stitching,” Julius noted. “Or they’ll open again.”

  He stepped away, returned with a leather pouch. From it, he pulled a needle, thread, and a yellowish balm that smelled of herbs.

  “My mother was a healer back in our village. Taught me most of what I know.”

  Gunnar watched him.

  “She died of sickness,” Julius continued, a short, bitter smile on his lips. “Saved so many people. But no one knew how to save her.”

  Silence fell again. But not an empty one — a shared one.

  Julius stitched the gash in Gunnar’s thigh with steady hands. His face set, focused. Gunnar endured it in silence. Not a word. Not a cry.

  Then the balm over the sutures. Quiet relief.

  “All done. It'll hurt tomorrow, but it’ll heal. As long as it stays closed.”

  Gunnar nodded.

  “Thanks.”

  Julius packed everything away, then sat beside him, leaning back against the cold wall.

  “Rest. The night’s not done burning yet.”

  Gunnar looked at the old man. Then at Julius.

  And finally, allowed his shoulders to fall.