The extraction tent smelled of heated canvas, wet wool, and the sharp, medicinal tang of alchemical antiseptic. It was a smell I knew from field hospitals in another life—the scent of survival, which is always just a little bit uglier than the scent of victory.
I sat on a folding stool, my breath still misting in the air despite the braziers glowing in the corners. A medic with tired eyes and quick hands was wrapping my wrist. It wasn't broken, just badly sprained from the torque of the sled when the avalanche hit. She smeared a cooling blue gel over the joint, muttered a low-grade binding spell, and wound the linen tight.
"Keep it immobile," she said, cutting the bandage with a small knife. "If you stress the ligament again before it sets, you'll lose grip strength for a month."
"I need my grip," I said.
"Then listen to me," she replied, moving to the next patient without looking back.
