The stench of blood and disinfectant hung heavy in the air as I moved between makeshift beds in the bunker's repurposed conference room. What had once hosted strategy meetings now served as our emergency medical bay, filled with the wounded from Malakor's attack.
"I need more gauze over here," Lyra called out, her hands steady despite hours of nonstop work. My sister knelt beside Harrison, checking the bandages on his shoulder where a bullet had grazed him. He'd made it back from the tunnel entrance alive but injured—a miracle I was still processing.
"Here," I said, passing her a fresh package from my dwindling supply. My arms ached from holding Rhys during our escape, but I pushed the discomfort aside. Others were suffering far worse.
"How's he doing?" I asked, nodding toward Harrison.
"I'll live," Harrison answered before Lyra could, his voice gruff with pain but his eyes clear. "Stop fussing over an old wolf and help those who really need it."
