The infirmary was never quiet.
Even during the brief lull in the fighting, there was always movement. Stretchers floated in on guided rails. Healers moved like machines. Essence hummed through the reinforced halls like a constant pulse. Pain was everywhere, but it was orderly pain. Managed. Processed.
That was what made it perfect.
I stayed hidden just outside the spatial fold I had anchored earlier, my perception stretched thin and precise. From here, I could feel everything without being seen. Every injured demon. Every fluctuation of deathmist. Every rune.
Lyrate moved among them like she belonged there.
She wore the appearance of a standard medical officer, her aura muted. To anyone watching, she was just another healer responding to an endless stream of wounded soldiers.
To me, she was a blade moving through a crowd.
The first group arrived together.
