In the end, he had taken heed of Xanthios' counsel, though the medicine he was to take proved more bitter than the wound.
His walk had led him through the winding, soot-stained arteries of the fortress to the medical breast of the Bastion, south from his office until he swerwed at the last on the left past the well of the castle.
The medical field was put specifically behind a wall, as to take cover from the daily bombardment exchanges the two sides launched at each other.
The diagnosis he was given however was a cold blade to the heart.
"It is bad, my lord," a gaunt medic murmured. The man was more stick than flesh, his fingers stained yellow by herbal poultices. He probed the swollen, purple mess of Asag's wrist with a clinical detachment that made the Legate gasp, his vision swimming in a sea of red. as pain washed over him.
"How bad?" Asag managed to grate out between ragged breaths.
