I held her stare, keeping my voice level and professional despite my racing pulse. "Ryhain, Ardin's wound is infected. He needs treatment now."
The prescriptions landed on the bedside table with a hollow rattle—a sound too small, too pathetic for the crisis unfolding before me. Pills. I'd brought pills. As if antibiotics alone could fight what I was seeing. The fever-bright flush painting Ardin's cheeks, the rapid-fire rhythm of his breathing, the waves of heat rolling off his body like he was burning from the inside out.
This was beyond pills.
"Ruka." I turned, my voice sharp and worried. My mind was already three steps ahead, cataloging supplies, calculating what I'd need. "My medical bag. It's in my truck. I need it now."
No hesitation. Just a single, decisive nod before he strode from the room, his boots thundering against the wooden floor. The door crashed open.
"Kael!" His voice boomed through the settlement, commanding and absolute. "The human's truck—there's a bag inside. Bring it to me. Now!"
A distant shout answered him. Footsteps scattered like startled birds.
I moved to the bedside, my focus narrowing to the patient before me. "I need to see the wound."
Ryhain stepped back, reluctance written in every line of her body. Her hand lingered on Ardin's shoulder—a mother's touch, protective and tender—before she finally let go.
The blanket peeled away easily. The bandages beneath were another story—clean, recently changed, wrapped with obvious care. But as I unwound the final layer, a sharp, familiar scent hit me.
Onion.
A poultice of mashed onion covered the incision, translucent layers pressed against angry, inflamed skin.
"You used onion." I glanced up at Ryhain, unable to hide my surprise. "That's... actually brilliant. Onions have natural antiseptic properties. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing."
Something shifted in Ryhain's expression—the hostility retreating just a fraction, replaced by something softer. "Morg. Our healer. She has tended our people for many years."
"She made the right call." I carefully lifted the poultice away, setting it aside with respect for the knowledge it represented. "But I need to see what we're working with."
The incision revealed itself inch by inch, and my stomach dropped.
The wound was a battlefield, and it was losing.
Angry crimson flesh radiated outward from the suture line like a warning flare. The edges were swollen, puffy, straining against the neat stitches I'd placed with such care. But it was the center that made my breath catch—a dusky purple discoloration that spoke of something festering beneath, something my careful work had failed to catch.
I pressed gently along the perimeter, watching Ardin's unconscious face. Even lost in fever dreams, his body knew pain. A whimper escaped his lips, small and heartbreaking.
"The onion helped," I murmured, half to myself. "But it's fighting a losing battle. This isn't surface-level."
I leaned in closer, my trained eye tracking the pattern of inflammation. It radiated from a specific point—about two inches from the lower end of the incision—like poison spreading through water. The tissue there was darker, angrier, as if something buried deep was corrupting everything it touched.
My mind rewound to that chaotic night in the ER. I'd been thorough. I knew I had. Irrigation, bullet removal, fragment check...
Had I been thorough enough?
"Damn it." A fragment. Had to be. A piece of shrapnel I'd missed in the desperate rush to save his life. Not silver though, silver would have already killed him.
Footsteps approached from behind, and I didn't need to turn to know who it was. Ruka's presence filled the space like a gathering storm—impossible to ignore.
"Jordan?" His voice was carefully neutral, but tension thrummed beneath the surface like a plucked string.
I looked up. Whatever he read in my expression made his jaw turn to stone. His eyes tracked from me to Ardin and back again, and I watched understanding dawn.
"How bad?" Two words, simple and direct.
I drew a slow breath, weighing each word before I spoke. "The infection has roots. Deep ones. The onion poultice drew out the surface poison, but there's something still buried inside—a bullet fragment, maybe debris from the wound. His body's waging war against it, but it's losing ground."
Ruka's expression turned to granite. "Meaning?"