When the wagon drew up before the infirmary at the heart of Berlinard, the air was still shrouded in mist, the first rays of dawn unable to pierce the heavy grey canopy of clouds. A sharp chill drifted through the gaps of the cart, mingled with the familiar sting of antiseptic and the faint, dry scent of herbs—the unmistakable atmosphere of any house of healing.

The infirmary was a two-storied structure of old stone, its walls mottled with moss, its windows half-opened to admit the light, though the interior remained dim and shadowed. A few physicians in grey coats were sweeping the corridor in preparation for the day when they halted at the sight of Darius alighting with a young woman, unconscious and feverish, cradled against his chest.

The wheels, as they ceased to turn, splattered brown mud across the flagstones. Darius gave no heed. With resolute swiftness he leapt to the ground, stooping to bear the frail body, wrapped in coarse canvas, more securely in his arms.

As he mounted the cold stone steps leading into the hall, a sudden gust tore at his cloak and caught several damp, tangled strands of her pale hair, scattering them across his shoulder. That hair, dulled by the night's rain, was heavy now with sweat and weariness.

"There is a patient," he called tersely towards the entrance.

A young physician hurried forth, pushing wide the door and motioning him inward. They entered a narrow chamber: a plain wooden bed stood ready with clean linen; beside it a tray of instruments and folded cloths. The acrid scent of dried wormwood filled the air, while a meagre shaft of light from the window lent the place a chill urgency.

Darius bent to lay the girl upon the bed, arranging the covering with scrupulous care. His eyes were calm, yet his hand lingered at her wrist to feel the faint pulse—an old habit from one who had witnessed too many fall upon the field.

"She has burned with fever since last night. Likely a chill caught in the rain," he reported briefly.

The physician nodded and set to his work. When another attendant brought warm water and cloths, Darius stepped back towards the door, though his gaze did not leave the sleeping figure.

As the examination began, he glanced out the window. The light of morning was brightening, casting pale gold across the sodden ground. From the courtyard came the stir of voices and the tread of boots: his men were waiting at the wagons, and the summons to return to camp had already been given the night before.

Turning to the nurse preparing a basin of warm water, he said quietly:

"She suffers from high fever and weakness. Pray see to her with all care. Should more medicine or communication be needed, the innkeeper will provide what is necessary."

The nurse inclined her head, taking from him the scrap of paper upon which he had hastily written his instructions. Darius cast one last look at the bedside, where the golden-haired girl lay beneath thin blankets, her face pallid, her long lashes lowered in sleep. Upon the small table stood the embroidered handkerchief—the rose, emblem of the fallen Royal House. He had placed it there and left it, refusing to keep it, as though to mark a boundary between duty and curiosity.

Without another word, he turned and strode from the chamber, heavy with the smell of medicine.

Along the deserted corridor, his boots struck the stone in crisp, unyielding rhythm. A draught met him as he reached the courtyard, tossing the hem of his white cloak. His men were already mounted or gathered about the baggage wagon.

"Forward," he commanded, his tone short and final, without once looking back.

The wagon rolled away, leaving behind the infirmary, the pale-haired girl whose name he did not yet know, and that damp, mist-bound morning in which, for a fleeting hour, the rigours of a soldier's life had bent beneath the weight of a stranger's fate.