Chapter 17: Leaving the Clearing

The aftermath of the battle draped the forest clearing in an eerie calm, a stark contrast to the chaos that had reigned a short time before. The gentle descent of snowflakes from the heavens softened the harsh edges of the landscape, gradually obscuring the visceral reminders of violence beneath a pristine white blanket. Katalin surveyed the area, her senses heightened by the lingering adrenaline coursing through her veins. The crisp scent of pine needles intermingled with the faint, metallic tang of blood, a stark reminder of the violence.

Wulfgar, his once grievous wounds now soothed by Gentiana's mystical touch, lay upon the frozen ground, his breathing steady and measured. Garren, Katalin, and Rollo stood around him in a protective circle, their stances defensive and their expressions a mix of relief and concern. The presence of Sir Randall's soldiers, armed and watchful, was an unmistakable threat, halting any plans for departure.

Sir Randall himself lay motionless a short distance away, his once-proud form now reduced to a pitiful sight. What could be seen of his face between his clutching hands appeared burned, blackened and contorted in pain, a testament to the Queen's icy kiss. His labored groans punctuated the stillness, each sound underscoring the severity of his condition. The four remaining soldiers had taken up positions around their fallen leader, their weapons held at the ready as they faced off against Katalin's group. Despite their efforts to maintain a resolute stance, their eyes darted between Gentiana, the wolves at her feet, and the ominous treeline that had previously concealed the Winter Dryads. The soldiers' faces were tense, and beads of sweat formed on their brows despite the chill in the air, hinting at their underlying uncertainty in the wake of their leaders' defeat.

Amidst the tension, Gentiana sat serenely in the snow, a faint smile playing on her lips as if she found the unfolding events mildly amusing. The two wolves that had remained lay curled at her feet, their eyes watchful and their ears pricked for any signs of danger.

The uneasy silence was broken by the gruff voice of one of the older soldiers, a man whose face bore the scars of countless battles. He stepped forward, his posture commanding despite the slight waver in his tone. "Don't move!" he barked, his gaze fixed upon Katalin and her companions. "Don't make any sudden moves or attempt to leave. We need to sort out what's happened here."

With a deep sigh, Garren stepped forward, his feet crunching in the snow as he moved towards the soldiers. He raised his hands slowly, palms open, in a gesture of peace. The older soldier who had issued the command watched him warily. Garren met his gaze steadily, "What's your name?" he asked, his tone firm but not hostile.

The soldier regarded him warily before responding. "Bertram," he replied gruffly, his expression guarded.

"Bertram," Garren repeated. "I know you've suffered losses today," he said. "We all have. But more fighting will only bring more grief. We don't want any more trouble. Just let us tend to our wounded and be on our way."

The older soldier hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he pondered Garren's words. Uncertain glances were exchanged among the other soldiers, their weapons poised for action at the slightest sign of trouble. The atmosphere was charged with tension, a silent standoff balancing on the brink of violence.

Sir Randall's agonized moan pierced the tense silence, drawing everyone's attention to his prone form. Garren seized the opportunity to press the issue, his voice firm but not unsympathetic. "How badly is Sir Randall injured?" he asked, his gaze fixed on Bertram. "He needs a healer, and soon. You should get him and your other wounded to town."

The soldiers shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between Garren and their fallen leader. Bertram stood silent a moment, looking back to where Sir Randall lay in the snow and back to Garren. The others looked to him for guidance, their own uncertainty palpable in the chill air.

Amidst the indecision, Percival stepped forward, his movements cautious as he approached Sir Randall. Kneeling beside his commander, he leaned in close, his voice low and laced with concern. "Sir Randall, can you hear me sir? How bad is the pain?" Gingerly, he placed a hand on Randall's shoulder, offering what little comfort he could in the face of such grievous injuries.

Sir Randall's reaction was explosive and immediate. As Percival's hand made contact with his shoulder, the knight suddenly thrashed about, his arm lashing out in a wild, uncontrolled arc. Caught off guard, Percival toppled backward, hitting the ground with a thud and a surprised grunt. The soldiers tensed, hands tightening on their weapons as they watched their leader's erratic behavior with growing unease.

Rollo, his eyes narrowed in thought, took a step forward to stand beside Garren. "The potion that Sir Randall uses when he's... questioning prisoners," he began, choosing his words carefully, "does he still carry it?"

Bertram's gaze snapped to Rollo, his eyes sharp and assessing. For a moment, he seemed to size up the man, weighing his words and the unspoken implications. "The mithridate, you mean?" he asked, his voice low and gruff. "Aye, he always carries a vial or two. Never goes anywhere without it."

Bertram gestured to the two other soldiers, his voice low but urgent. "Hold him steady," he commanded, pointing to Sir Randall's writhing form. "And you," he said to Percival, "find that potion. It may be our only chance to calm him."

Percival scrambled to kneel again by Sir Randall as the two soldiers grasped their leader's arms and shoulders, attempting to restrain his frenzied movements. As they held him, the extent of Sir Randall's injuries became painfully apparent. His once-proud visage was now marred by blackened, burned flesh, his eyes nearly obliterated by the Queen's icy kiss. Sir Randall fought against them, his cries of pain and rage echoing through the clearing.

With all of the soldier's attention on Sir Randall, Katalin and Rollo helped Wulfgar to a sitting position and handed him his axe and shield. Rollo then quietly retrieved his crossbow from where it had fallen during the earlier combat. Seemingly unnoticed by the preoccupied soldiers, he reloaded the weapon with practiced efficiency, his movements swift and deliberate. Katalin felt a flicker of reassurance, knowing they were more prepared to defend them if the situation escalated.

As the soldiers struggled to restrain their thrashing leader, Percival moved quickly, his hands shaking slightly as he rummaged through Sir Randall's pouches. With a solemn nod, he held up a small leather flask.

Bertram nodded, "Give it to him," he ordered, his voice steady and resolute.

Before proceeding further, Percival took a deep breath then looked to where Gentiana sat nearby in the snow, calmly watching the action around Sir Randall and petting one of the wolves. "Lady Genitalia," he began tentatively, "could you... perhaps... heal his injuries?"

Gentiana glared silently at him for a moment then responded, her tone brusque and unwavering. "No," she said simply, her gaze meeting Percival's with a steely resolve. "What my queen has done will not be undone by me."

Percival's shoulders slumped slightly at the refusal, a mix of disappointment and resignation evident in his expression. He then turned back to Bertram, who just nodded, and Percival tightened his grip on the flask as he moved closer to Sir Randall.

With a steady hand, Percival brought the flask to Sir Randall's lips, tilting it carefully to pour the contents into his mouth.

As the last drops of the potion trickled down Sir Randall's throat, Percival fell away from him, and the two soldiers released their grip and stepped quickly away. Gradually, the frenzied thrashing subsided, replaced by subdued groans of pain. An eerie silence settled over the clearing, broken only by the soft whisper of falling snow and the labored breathing of the wounded man.

With Sir Randall now somewhat subdued, Bertram took a moment to survey the clearing, his gaze moving from his fallen men to Garren and the others. Turning to Percival, he gestured towards Sir Randall's prone form, his voice firm but tinged with weariness. "Percival, keep an eye on him," he instructed. "Make sure he doesn't attempt any... unexpected moves."

Percival nodded, his expression a mix of determination and uncertainty as he positioned himself near Sir Randall, ready to intervene if necessary.

Bertram then shifted his attention to the other two soldiers, his tone growing more resolute. "You two," he said, his eyes fixed on them. "Check the others. See if any live."

The soldiers exchanged a brief glance before moving to carry out Bertram's orders, their steps cautious as they navigated the aftermath of the battle. They moved from one fallen comrade to another, their hands seeking signs of life amidst the still forms.

Garren, Katalin, and Rollo gathered around Wulfgar, their faces etched with worry as they assessed his condition. Garren knelt beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "How are you holding up?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Wulfgar looked up at his companions, a weak smile playing on his lips despite the pain that shadowed his eyes. "Seen better days," he admitted, his tone laced with a hint of humor that belied his true state. "But make me a crutch, and I'll manage."

Frowning, Rollo considered Wulfgar's words, his own concern evident in the set of his jaw. "Maybe we should head back to the village," he suggested tentatively, glancing at the others for support. "Tell them what happened to Dover and Sally."

Garren's expression grew thoughtful, after a moment, he shook his head, his voice firm with conviction. "No," he said, his eyes meeting Rollo's. "It's too risky for the village and for us. If we go back there, more soldiers will come."

Katalin nodded in agreement, her gaze sweeping the surrounding forest with a wary vigilance. "We'll be safer out here than back in the village," she affirmed, her hand instinctively resting on her warhammer.

Wulfgar interjected, his voice strong despite the wounds that marred his body. He pushed himself to sit up straighter, determination shining in his eyes as he looked at each of his companions in turn. "I can travel," he insisted, his tone brooking no argument. "And besides, the dryad said she would heal me further. I will be alright."

The group fell silent for a moment, each considering Wulfgar's words and the challenges that lay ahead. As they deliberated their next move, Katalin observed with a watchful eye as the two soldiers attended to their fallen comrades. Their movements were tense, their gazes darting nervously towards Gentiana as they checked the soldier with two arrows lodged in his body. After a grim assessment, they solemnly reported that all four of the downed men were dead.

However, as Katalin's gaze swept over the battlefield, she noticed a faint aura around Sergeant Thomas, a glimmer of life amidst the stillness of death. She called out to Bertram, her voice carrying across the clearing with unwavering certainty. "Your Sergeant Thomas still lives," she stated firmly, her eyes fixed on the wounded soldier.

Bertram turned sharply at her words, his expression a mix of surprise and disbelief. "Alive?" he asked, his tone urgent as he strode over to where Thomas lay, his footsteps crunching heavily in the snow. "Let me see."

Kneeling beside the fallen sergeant, Bertram conducted a brief examination, his hands moving with practiced efficiency as he checked for signs of life. As he did so, his expression darkened, a storm of anger and frustration gathering in his eyes.

Rising to his feet, Bertram whirled around to face the other soldiers, his voice a thunderous rebuke. "Puddle headed slime spine buffoons!" he exclaimed, his words lashing out like a whip. "I should have you whipped. Gather the fallen and prepare them to be taken back to town. I will look after Thomas myself."

The soldiers flinched at Bertram's harsh reprimand, their faces flushing with shame and fear as they hastened to carry out his orders. They moved among the dead with a renewed sense of purpose, their hands trembling slightly as they began the grim task of preparing their fallen comrades for the journey back to town.

Katalin moved to watch as Bertram carefully turned Thomas onto his back and scrutinized his wounds. Two distinct bite marks, one on his sword arm and the other on his neck, oozed blood at a sluggish pace. Frowning, Bertram rummaged through a small pack hanging from Sergeant Thomas' belt and pulled out several bandages. With practiced movements, he began padding and carefully wrapping the neck wound, his focus entirely on the task at hand.

Suddenly, a commotion drew everyone's attention to Sir Randall. The wounded knight was struggling to sit up, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. Percival, ever dutiful, attempted to assist him, but Sir Randall would have none of it. "Get your hands off me," he barked abruptly, his tone sharp with authority despite his weakened state.

Percival, startled by the sudden outburst, quickly withdrew his hands, stepping back as if stung. Sir Randall, ignoring the aid offered to him, began issuing orders, his voice strained and slurred. "Sergeant Thomas, organize the men. We need to get back to town," he commanded, his unseeing eyes staring blankly ahead.

Percival intervened gently, his voice soft and reassuring as he addressed his commander. "Sir, Sergeant Thomas is injured," he explained, casting a concerned glance at Bertram.

Sir Randall scanned the area blindly, his head turning from side to side as if searching for the source of Percival's voice. "Percy? Is that you?" he inquired, his tone softer now, tinged with confusion.

"Yes, sir. I am right here, sir," Percival affirmed, his words steady and calming as he sought to provide reassurance to his commander.

"Who else is still here?" Randall asked, swiveling his head around as though he was scanning the clearing.

Percival hesitated for a moment, his gaze darting around the battlefield as he took stock of the situation. "Bertram and a couple of the men," he answered cautiously, his voice low and measured.

Sir Randall's posture stiffened, his unseeing gaze shifting as if searching for another presence. "Where are the witches?" he inquired sharply, his tone laced with a mix of fear and anger.

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Percival's eyes flickered nervously toward Gentiana, who sat calmly amidst the chaos, her presence an enigma. He swallowed hard before responding, "The dryads are gone, sir."

Sir Randall's head snapped up, his voice booming across the clearing as he called out, "Bertram? Are you here?"

Bertram immediately left Sergeant Thomas and hurried over to where Sir Randall sat. He knelt beside his commander, his voice clear and strong as he replied, "Yes, sir, I am here."

Sir Randall wasted no time in issuing further commands, his voice filled with authority but still slow and slurred. "Bertram, you and your men help me get to the junction," he ordered firmly, his tone brooking no argument. Then, turning his head in Percival's general direction, he added, "Percival, stay here and do what you can for Sergeant Thomas until help arrives."

Bertram acknowledged the orders. "Yes, sir," he affirmed, before raising another pressing matter, his voice grave. "Sir, Desmond, Jaz, and Oz are dead. What do we do with them?"

Without hesitation, Sir Randall answered, his words decisive and unwavering. "Leave them." Then after a slight pause he added, "We will send someone to get them."

Bertram wasted no time in delegating tasks to his remaining men. "Percival, take Mort and go bring up the horses," he ordered briskly, his voice commanding and leaving no room for debate.

Percival nodded in acknowledgment, quickly rising to his feet, his movements swift and purposeful. Making eye contact with one of the soldiers handling the bodies of the fallen, he signaled for him to follow. Katalin noticed that Percival was still favoring one foot and had a slight limp, but he was no longer leaving bloody prints in the snow.

Together, Percival and Mort ran towards the woods, their footsteps crunching in the snow as they closed the distance to the treeline. Despite a momentary pause at the edge of the forest as they gazed into the shadowy depths, they pressed on, their determination overriding any lingering fears.

Garren took a moment to carefully inspect Wulfgar's remaining wounds, his expression tightening in concentration as he assessed the extent of the injuries. While there were still noticeable gashes on Wulfgar's leg, they appeared to be shallow and had ceased bleeding. With a nod of reassurance to Wulfgar, Garren turned his attention to his own belongings, going to his pack nestled in the snow nearby.

Kneeling beside the pack, he untied the knots securing a small pouch attached to its exterior and returned with it to Wulfgar. With practiced hands, he opened the pouch, revealing an array of jars containing various salves and bandages. Selecting the appropriate supplies, Garren began to prepare to tend to Wulfgar's wounds, his movements deliberate and purposeful.

Meanwhile, Rollo stood sentinel over them, his crossbow held at the ready as he kept watch over the soldiers. Katalin knelt beside Wulfgar and Garren, her brow furrowed in curiosity as she observed their preparations. "What is mithridate?" she inquired; her voice soft but laced with genuine interest. "Should we ask if they have more of it?"

Garren paused in his ministrations, glancing up at Katalin with a thoughtful expression. "Mithridate," he began, his tone measured as he considered his words, "is a potent potion known for its numbing effects and its ability to induce a state of stupor. It's often used to alleviate pain in cases of severe injury, buying time until a healer can be sought." He paused, his gaze drifting briefly to the soldiers before returning to Katalin. "But," he added gravely, "it's not without its risks. Some become dependent on it, unable to break free from its grip."

Wulfgar shook his head faintly, his voice tinged with determination as he spoke. "No, lass," he interjected, his words firm despite the pain that laced his features. "I don't need the stuff. I'll heal better without it."

Katalin nodded, trusting the wisdom in Wulfgar's decision. She watched as Garren returned to tending to Wulfgar's wounds, his hands moving with a gentle efficiency as he applied the salves and wrapped the bandages.

As the group settled into an uneasy silence, Katalin's stomach rumbled, a stark reminder that they had not eaten since before dawn. She reached for her pack, her cold fingers fumbling with the latch until she retrieved her pouch of torvgras. Without a word, she passed it around to Wulfgar, Rollo, and Garren, each of them accepting the offering with a nod of gratitude.

Wulfgar's eyes brightened as he took a bite of the dried meat, a hint of fondness in his voice as he remarked, "Ah, torvgras. Still tastes as good as ever."

Katalin offered a small smile in response, the familiarity of the moment providing a brief respite from the tension that hung heavy in the air. She watched as the others took their share in silence and broke off a large piece for herself, the act of sharing food a small but significant gesture of unity amidst the uncertainty.

As they chewed on the dry meat and passed the waterskin between them, Katalin's gaze drifted to Gentiana, who sat serenely nearby, seemingly untouched by the chaos that had unfolded. With a sense of curiosity and a desire to extend a friendly gesture, Katalin approached the dryad cautiously and extended a piece of torvgras. "Would you like a piece?" she offered softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Gentiana accepted the torvgras with a gracious smile, her delicate fingers brushing against Katalin's as she took the offering. "Thank you, Katalin," she murmured appreciatively before taking a small bite.

Then, with a gentle gaze towards the wolves that lay at her feet, Gentiana inquired, "May I offer some to my companions?"

Katalin nodded, a flicker of warmth spreading through her chest at the dryad's consideration for her animal friends. She passed over two large pieces of torvgras, watching with delight as Gentiana fed them to the wolves. The animals wagged their tails in gratitude and affection, their tongues darting out to lick Gentiana's hand as they enjoyed the unexpected treats.

As Katalin stood by Gentiana and the wolves, she allowed her gaze to wander, taking in the scene around them. Her eyes fell upon Bertram, who pressed a waterskin into Sir Randall's hands. The wounded knight took it without acknowledging the gesture, his hands shaking as he raised it to his lips. Katalin watched as he spilled as much water down his front as he managed to drink.

Meanwhile, the lone remaining soldier strained under the weight of the final body, his face contorted with effort as he dragged it with a grunt across the icy ground to join its fallen comrades. The scraping sound against the frost sent shivers down Katalin's spine, a chilling reminder of the day's violence.

Taking a moment to center herself, Katalin drew in a deep breath, the cold air invigorating her senses. As she exhaled, a misty cloud formed in front of her. With a small shake of her head, she walked back to where her friends waited and joined them.

As Katalin scanned the treeline, her eyes narrowed in concentration, she caught sight of faint glimmers of auras approaching and growing stronger before the figures themselves emerged. It wasn't long before Percival, Mort, and a young teen led several horses out of the trees--nine mounts and a packhorse in tow. Katalin watched with a keen eye as the soldiers set about preparing for their departure.

Her gaze followed Bertram and Percival as they aided Sir Randall onto his mount, their movements careful and deliberate as they maneuvered the injured knight into the saddle. The other soldiers busied themselves with their own horses, securing their gear and preparing to leave the clearing behind.

Katalin couldn't help but feel a sense of surprise at how quickly the soldiers were ready to depart. It seemed that in the blink of an eye, they were mounting up and heading out. Bertram took the lead, guiding Sir Randall's mount with a steady hand. The two soldiers and the boy on the packhorse followed close behind, each leading a riderless horse, the empty saddles a somber reminder of the fallen.

As the group disappeared into the forest, Katalin's attention was drawn back to the clearing, where only Percival remained. He stood with two horses, presumably his own and Sergeant Thomas's, his posture tense and his expression unreadable. Katalin couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were running through his mind as he watched his comrades ride away, leaving him alone with the responsibility of tending to the wounded Sergeant Thomas and dealing with Katalin and her companions.

As Katalin watched Percival tether the remaining horses, she noted his cautious demeanor. He approached her with his hands slightly raised in a gesture of peace.

"Hello, miss," he began tentatively, his voice soft and uncertain. "I'm Percival. Some people call me Percy." His voice trailed off momentarily, as if he were gathering his thoughts, before he continued, "I don't want any trouble. You and your friends are free to go."

Katalin regarded him carefully, taking in his earnest expression, the sincerity in his words and the absence of hostility in his aura. "Thank you, Percy. We don't want any trouble either," she replied politely, her tone measured yet not unkind. With a nod of acknowledgment, she turned back to her friends, ready to discuss their next move.

Before she could fully turn away, Percival spoke again, his tone hesitant and almost apologetic. "Miss... I left... that is, in the confusion of everyone getting ready to go, somehow the mount Dover was riding got left behind." He gestured back at the trees, his movements small and uncertain.

Katalin raised an eyebrow skeptically, her gaze sharpening as she considered his words. "He just accidentally got left behind, did he?" she questioned; her tone laced with a hint of disbelief.

Percival shrugged; his expression sheepish as he met her gaze. "She, actually. Her name is Pickles. She's a very calm horse. That man Dover was a very poor rider, so we gave him an easy mount. I bet Pickles would be happy to carry your injured man there if you happened to find her."

Rollo, ever eager to assist, chimed in from nearby, his voice filled with enthusiasm. "I'll get the horse."

Katalin interjected firmly, her voice brooking no argument as she turned to face Rollo. "No, I will go. In case it's a trap." She regarded Percival intently, her eyes searching his face for any sign of deceit. "I don't think it is, but just in case, you stay here and watch him."

Rollo nodded, accepting Katalin's decision without question. He understood her caution and trusted her judgment, knowing that she would do what was best for the group.

As Katalin headed towards the trees, Percival pointed in the direction he had come from. "About forty paces that way," he instructed.

Rollo, with his typical optimism, interjected, "Don't worry, she'll find the horse easy on account of her sharp ears."

Percival appeared puzzled by Rollo's comment, and Katalin hesitated, as if she were about to clarify something, but ultimately, she just shook her head and proceeded towards the trees, leaving the confusion hanging in the air.

Drawing her hammer, Katalin ventured into the forest, her senses on high alert as she scanned for any signs of danger. The quiet movement of the wind through the branches above accompanied her every step, as she focused on extending her senses, searching for any unusual auras. To her relief, she saw only a few small forest animals.

After a short distance, she spotted the faint aura of the horse, surrounded by nothing larger than a rabbit. Proceeding cautiously, Katalin approached the horse, her movements slow and deliberate. With gentle hands, she untied its tether and began to lead it back to the clearing.

Emerging from the woods, Katalin noticed Garren, Rollo, and Wulfgar watching her intently, their gazes fixed upon her form. As they saw her return alone with the horse, their tense expressions visibly relaxed, the relief evident in their posture.

She waved for Rollo, who hurried over to her without hesitation. Katalin passed him the horse's lead and watched as he led Pickles to where Garren and Wulfgar waited, the horse's hooves crunching softly in the snow.

Approaching Percival, Katalin expressed her gratitude, her voice sincere and warm. "Thank you, Percival."

Percival grinned shyly, his cheeks flushing slightly at her words. "Don't thank me. I don't know how they managed to leave Pickles behind."

Curious about Percival's next move, Katalin inquired, her tone gentle but probing, "What will you do now?"

Percival glanced nervously around the clearing, his eyes darting from the trees to the wounded Sergeant Thomas. "Try to make Sergeant comfortable, I guess. And wait. Hopefully, someone comes tomorrow."

"You could come with us," Katalin suggested, her words hanging in the air between them, an invitation that spoke of understanding and compassion.

Percival considered her offer for a moment, his forehead creased in thought, before shaking his head. "That's kind of you. But it would go poorly for my family if Lord Tamas thought I deserted him. And besides, I couldn't leave the sergeant all alone like he is."

"I understand," Katalin said, her voice soft with empathy. "Is there anything you need? Do you have enough food and water?"

Percival nodded, his expression troubled and his eyes shadowed with worry. "Yes, I have enough for several days. I'm just worried about Sergeant Thomas. If he... if he gets worse, Sir Randall will blame me."

Katalin considered his words for a moment, her gaze drifting to where Garren and Rollo were helping Wulfgar mount Pickles, with Gentiana nearby observing. An idea sparked in her mind, and she turned back to Percival.

"Just a moment," Katalin said to him before striding over to Gentiana, her steps purposeful and determined.

Approaching the dryad, Katalin caught her eye and spoke earnestly. "I understand why you didn't heal Randall. But is there anything you can do for him?" She pointed towards Thomas.

Gentiana smiled warmly at Katalin's request, though a hint of concern flickered in her eyes. "I have some strength still," she admitted, her voice soft and melodic. "You are sure? It means longer before I help your friend."

Katalin nodded decisively, her expression resolute. "Yes. Giving us the horse is worth it. He didn't have to do that." Her words carried a sense of gratitude and respect for Percival's unexpected kindness.

Gentiana nodded in understanding, and with graceful steps, she made her way toward where Thomas lay, her wolves following closely at her heels. Percival watched nervously, edging a few paces back but remaining near Thomas, his concern for his sergeant evident in his every movement.

The dryad knelt next to Thomas, her movements fluid and precise. With gentle hands, she carefully examined his wounds, her touch as light as an early snowfall. A solemn expression settled upon her features as she began a chant, her voice soft yet resonant.

Placing her hands gently over the neck wound, Gentiana focused her energy, channeling the power that flowed through her. A faint blue glow enveloped Thomas momentarily, casting an ethereal light upon his still form. As the glow dissipated into the air, a sense of calm settled over the scene.

Rising to her feet, Gentiana turned to face Percival, her expression serene yet confident. "He will recover, so long as nothing else tries to eat him," she stated, her voice carrying a note of reassurance that seemed to ease the young soldier's worries. "Just keep him warm and well-fed."

Percival, visibly relieved, gave a slightly awkward bow. "Thank you, miss," he murmured gratefully, his voice filled with a mix of awe and appreciation. The dryad's healing touch had lifted a great weight from his shoulders, and his demeanor softened with gratitude.

As Katalin rejoined her companions, she overheard Garren assigning tasks, his voice calm and authoritative. "Rollo, will you go help Percival set up his camp?" he directed, his gaze falling upon the young soldier. Then, turning to Wulfgar, who sat atop Pickles, he asked, "Will you be alright for a few minutes if I collect some firewood for him?"

Wulfgar nodded in affirmation, his expression resolute despite the pain that lingered in his eyes. "Yes, I'll be fine. He seems a good lad. Go ahead and help him."

With that settled, Rollo joined Percival and together they swiftly stripped Sergeant Thomas of his boots and armor, their movements efficient and practiced. They worked together to get him comfortably settled in his bedroll, ensuring that he was warm and protected from the elements.

Meanwhile, Garren and Katalin gathered a stack of wood which they piled nearby. They then prepared a clear spot and arranged a ring of stones for a fire pit.

As Katalin began to strike sparks to ignite a fire, her focus unwavering, Gentiana promptly retreated to the treeline, her movements graceful and silent. There she stood and watched with the wolves by her side.

Those tasked finished, Garren, Rollo, and Katalin gathered their gear and backpacks and checked that everything was securely fastened. Wulfgar's packs were tied to the horse, the knots tight and secure, ready for the journey ahead.

With preparations complete, they set out, their steps carrying them towards the treeline where Gentiana awaited their arrival.

As they glanced around one final time, their eyes sweeping over the clearing to ensure nothing was left behind, they exchanged nods of readiness, a silent affirmation of their shared purpose. With a deep breath, they ventured into the dense thicket of trees, the forest enveloping them in its embrace.

Gentiana and Garren took the lead, their steps sure and their senses attuned to the whispers of the woods. Rollo followed close behind, guiding Pickles skillfully through the undergrowth, his hands steady on the reins as he avoided any low-hanging branches that might knock Wulfgar from his perch.

As Katalin watched the others vanish into the dense forest, a sense of calm settled over her, a stark contrast to the tumultuous events of the day. Despite the challenges they had faced, the battles they had fought, and the losses they had witnessed, they had emerged stronger, their bond forged in the crucible of adversity.

They had survived their hardest test yet, and now, with Gentiana as their guide, they had a clear path forward. The dryad's presence was reassuring, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there was always hope to be found.

Katalin's gaze swept the clearing, taking in the scene that had been the stage for their struggle. Her eyes found Percival, standing alone by his solitary fire. For a moment, their eyes met, a silent acknowledgment of the brief encounter they had shared.

With a small wave, a gesture of farewell and gratitude, Katalin turned away, her footsteps carrying her towards the path that her friends had taken.

As she disappeared into the foliage, leaving the clearing behind, Katalin's thoughts turned to Percival. She wished the young soldier well, hoping that his kindness and compassion would see him through the challenges that lay ahead. And as she walked, she couldn't help but wonder if their paths would ever cross again.