The infirmary was already bursting at the seams when Lyra arrived. Mara looked fractionally relieved, but Lyra pushed away the guilt she felt for leaving her to set immediately to the task of healing. Smoke billowed through the fortress from some unknown fire outside, and the beds were almost full of bleeding patients.
“You’re late,” Mara chided, not looking up from the enormous bite mark she was packing.
“I’m early,” Lyra answered, the old exchange now a ritual that felt required to start their day.
“Then we’re all doomed,” Mara muttered, setting a pot over the flame. “Fill the basins. I’ve gone through all the clean water already. They’ll be bringing more in soon, if the walls still stand.”
They worked in a rhythm. Lyra measured out medicinal herbs to mix in with the boiling water
