Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 75 (Patreon)

Lys drifted in and out of consciousness.

Her body jolted with each step of the stretcher-bearers. Voices blurred around her, yelling something she couldn’t grasp. The white and red flag of the White Dragons fluttered above, a beacon in the haze.

Darkness swallowed her again.

Cold seeped into her bones, making her shiver. When her eyes opened, she found herself in Thornfield. Grassy meadows spread out, vibrant with summer flowers. The yellow and orange petals danced in the breeze.

She walked through the field, a smile touching her lips.

Her home stood on the hill, solid and comforting. Bran waved to her from the porch, his figure strong and familiar. Beside him, Elie clung to him, her smile gentle and… a baby swaddled in one arm? They waved, beckoning her closer.

The scene felt surreal.

Each step toward them made her heart lighter. The scent of wildflowers filled her lungs, a stark contrast to the iron and blood of battle. She raised her hand to wave back, the motion slow and dreamlike.

Voices cut through the tranquility, harsh and urgent.

The stretcher jolted, and reality bled into her vision. Faces hovered above her, their expressions tense. The cold returned, sharper this time. She fought to stay in the meadow, but the darkness pulled at her.

Thornfield faded. The meadow dissolved into a blur of colors, leaving only the chill. She wanted to call out, to hold on to that moment, but her strength waned.

Someone was taking her clothes off—trying to remove the bandage wrapped around her chest. She reached out to stop them, but her arms had no strength. The effort was enough to exhaust her.

She slipped again, deeper into the void.

The white and red flag waved above, its colors stark against the blackness. Shouting echoed in the distance, growing fainter.

Her vision narrowed, the world reduced to a pinprick of light.

Caius’s sneering face loomed large, his gang of village boys surrounding her like a pack of wolves.

The moment she broke his leg replayed in vivid detail—the sickening crunch, his scream of agony, the stunned silence that followed. She remembered the weight of their stares, the mix of fear and hatred.

The mountain road to Silverpines stretched out before her.

Each step was a step away from Thornfield and the consequences of defending herself.

Jorg walked beside her, his presence a comforting anchor. Then came the ambush. Two Irongian mercenaries struck like vipers, their blades flashing. Jorg fell, blood pooling beneath him. Her heart fluttered painfully as she ran.

And ran, and ran, and ran. Down endless roads, up and down never-ending hills. Her heart fluttered with the effort.

The frantic defense against the Rusty Lathes.

She saw herself letting loose with her bow, arrows flying in every direction. The chaos, the blood, the desperate fight for survival.

A frantic climb up a cliff. Dax, Cole, and Lark laughed as they caught her as she started to fall. She couldn’t make out the words they tried to tell her.

She landed on a fire lizard’s back, barely catching a spear embedded in its neck before it took off running. The beast roared, thrashing beneath her, but she held on, determined not to be blown away in the wind.

Her life had become so full of violence.

Suddenly, she stood before the fields of Thornfield again.

The vibrant meadows welcomed her home, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked memories. Her mother appeared beside her, her presence warm and reassuring.

“You’re safe now,” Elena said softly. They moved inside, where a table was set. Jonas the Carter laid a large turkey at its center.

Meya, Arlos, and their children joined them, their faces kind and welcoming.

Her little sister and brother danced around the chairs.

The dinner table was larger than she remembered, laden with food. They sat together, sharing a meal in peaceful silence.

The warmth of family and friends enveloped her. She savored each bite of food, each moment of tranquility. The scene felt almost too perfect to be real, but she clung to it, unwilling to let go.

Doubt trickled in. Were they all dead, too? Surely not. The thought was unbearable and a deep-seated melancholy seeped in.

She looked up at the back of the room. Orin and Garret waved at her, sad smiles tugging at her heart. She wanted to tell them something, but sound had stopped working. Her lips moved anyway.

Everything faded slowly, despite her effort to hold on to it.

Lys’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing a stone ceiling above her.

A dull ache permeated her body, and an urgent need to relieve herself made itself known.

Somewhere nearby, a man’s voice commanded attention, “To the infirmary, immediately.”

She drew in a deep breath, but the action triggered a coughing fit that sent sharp pains radiating through her torso. Stormwell’s face appeared above her, his brow furrowed with concern.

Lys tried to speak, but only a gurgle escaped her throat, the sound startling her.

Mustering her strength, she attempted to sit up, but firm hands gently pushed her back down, insisting she remain flat.

“Fucking won’t stay still, this one,” someone said.

As the stretcher carried her through the stone halls, exhaustion crept back over her. Despite her best efforts, Lys slipped back into unconsciousness. It was like that for a while. In and out. Faces and lights. Pain and relief.

The periods of relief grew longer. But so did the blackness.

Eventually, there was rest.

When Lys woke next, she was cushioned in a bed.

Her side burned with each breath, bringing her fully to wakefulness. She tilted her head to take her bearings.

Darkness shrouded the room, pierced only by the flickering glow of a single candle. A window hinted at stars. Night. Shadows danced on the walls. Other beds were all empty, their sheets neatly folded, untouched.

She tried to sit up, but felt too weak. The effort left her panting, her head spinning.

Her hand brushed her face, feeling dry, cracked lips. She needed water. She needed to piss. Her body’s needs overpowered the pain.

A table stood nearby, a pitcher of water and a cup within arm’s reach.

The sight of it sharpened her focus. Forcing herself upright, a lance of agony shot through her side, almost toppling her attempt.

She gritted her teeth, sweat beading on her forehead. A light gown covered her. Her chest wrap and underclothes were gone.

Her throat tightened with panic.

They knew.

Each breath came in a shallow gasp. She pushed that aside.

Water. Pee. One step at a time.

She swung her legs off the bed, the cool stone floor sending a shiver up her spine. Standing, dizziness crashed over her like a wave. She clung to the bedpost, knuckles white, until the room stopped spinning.

A voice cut through the silence. “What are you doing?” It was sharp, demanding.

Lys swallowed and looked toward the voice. The older man stood before her in a White Dragon’s uniform, his expression stern.

“I need to piss,” she said, her voice raspy.

“You suffered a perforation of the pleural cavity and lung,” he replied, crossing his arms. “You already have enough pressure on your heart. You need to lie back down.”

Stubbornness flared in her chest. “I need the chamber pot.”

“Young lady, you need to lie down,” he insisted.

“Old man, if you don’t want me to piss on your floor, you’ll help me.”

He muttered under his breath, “Never thought I’d see the day where I was taking orders from a recruit.” But he fetched the pot, placing it beside her bed.

She stood over it, unsteady but determined. The relief of emptying her bladder outweighed any embarrassment. She didn’t care that he watched her.

When she finished, she sat back down on the bed, exhausted. “Water,” she croaked.

He brought the pitcher and a cup, pouring carefully. She drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing her dry and cracked throat.

Lys met the man’s gaze. “Am I walking dead?”

He shook his head, guiding her to lie back down. “No, but it was close. The stab missed your heart, but it punctured your lung. Most times, such wounds are fatal.”

She settled onto the bed, wincing at the movement. “Then how am I alive?”

“Your lung didn’t collapse fully, and the wound didn’t suck air for long. There’s no sign of infection or rot so far.” He adjusted her pillow. “You need to remain still and keep the wound from being agitated. You shouldn’t talk. You shouldn’t be able to talk at all.”

Lys frowned. “But I’m recovering?”

“Remarkably so. You’re young and healthy, which is in your favor.”

Her thoughts turned to the battle. “What about my company?”

His expression grew somber. “There were heavy casualties, but I don’t know the number.”

Lys glanced at the empty beds surrounding her. “How long have I been unconscious?”

“Three days.”

She let out a long breath. “Feels like an eternity.”

He patted her shoulder. “You need to rest now.”

Despite her stubbornness, exhaustion tugged at her eyelids. As she drifted, the man’s words echoed in her mind.

Three days. Heavy casualties.

She wanted to ask about her friends, but the weight of it all pushed her back into her dreams.