Not Broken

The tent was thick with the scent of blood, herbs, and seething tension. Jaxon stood near the entrance, arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes constantly drifting to the parted flap where he could just make out the distant silhouettes of the Nyxorian army. The low hum of soldiers preparing for the night beyond the canvas only made the silence inside the tent heavier.

Triston sat rigid on the edge of his chair, jaw clenched, muscles coiled with tension as the physician worked on his shoulder. Blood had soaked through the torn fabric of his tunic, mixing with dirt and sweat. Reyes’ bite had reopened the half-healed wound, and the torn flesh throbbed beneath every pass of the physician’s cloth.

Xaren sat on a crate at the far end of the tent, elbows on knees, watching the whole process in silence. He had said little since they returned from the clash. His face bore a grim expression, jaw tight with unspoken thoughts, but his eyes never left Triston. He was watching—not just as a