The canvas walls of the medical tent rippled with the wind, soft shadows playing across the interior with each sway. The scent of blood and alcohol hung heavy in the air, and the distant chatter of soldiers in the background told Colwyn the camp was still bustling.
He sat on a cot, bandaged from neck to waist, arm in a sling, ribs wrapped tight enough to make breathing a conscious effort. His armour lay discarded nearby, mangled and useless. A healer had come and gone hours ago, muttering something about "miracles" and "reckless bastards." He didn't argue.
But the strange part wasn't the pain. He welcomed that. It made sense.
What didn't make sense was the silence.
The trial was still going. Or it should be. That's how he figured this 'trial of fates' worked. You stayed until the scenario resolved. Until the goal was complete. Colwyn had killed the prince. Well, technically Rio had saved him and he'd thrown a spear shard into the bastard's eye, but close enough.
