The makeshift medical hall was a scene of relentless, high-strung turmoil. Moans of the severely wounded echoed from every corner, punctuated by the crackle of burning beams outside and the hurried footsteps of those struggling to maintain order amid the night's chaos. Helen, alongside the local healers and those who had arrived with the marquis's latest caravan, rushed frantically between the blood-stained cots, tearing clean rolls of fabric into bandages on the fly and dressing wounds.

Adrian sat on a bench, gritting his teeth until they creaked, as the healer carefully yet unceremoniously probed and adjusted his swollen, limply dangling leg.

“The bone is shattered badly,” the elderly healer muttered grimly, wiping his bloodied hands on his apron. “Even if it heals correctly, you won't ever be able to put your full weight on it again. You will walk with a severe limp.”

Clustered tightly beside their father were all three children. Little Mira sat next to him, her tear-stained, frightened eyes wide open, quietly sniffling, afraid to make a single unnecessary movement.

Adrian let out a heavy breath, forcing the tension from his face, and offered a soft smile to his children. He extended a trembling hand, awkwardly yet warmly ruffling each of their heads.

Then his gaze rested on his son. In the father's eyes gleamed a deep, wordless pride.

“You did wonderfully,” Adrian said softly yet firmly, looking at Bernard, who was still trembling slightly. “You did the absolute right thing when you hid Mira. If not for you, she might have been hurt.”

Helen walked slowly toward her family, stepping heavily across the soot-covered floor. Her apron and hands were thickly stained with another's blood, her shoulders stooped under the weight of the horror they had just survived. Sinking to her knees beside her husband and children, she wrapped her arms tightly around them, finally allowing her tears to burst forth - bitter tears of infinite relief that they were all still alive.

Meanwhile, inside the outpost commander's office, a tense silence reigned, broken only by the whistle of the freezing wind slipping through a windowpane cracked by the night's inferno.

The village elder, a stooped elderly woman with a weathered face, reported monotonously on the scale of destruction.

“Three barns and the eastern outbuilding burned to the ground... We managed to turn out some of the livestock, but a few head were pinned under collapsed beams. People are crowding into the surviving homes, but there is catastrophically not enough room for everyone. Besides, they are still terrified we will be attacked again.”

She tried to maintain her composure, but her gaze repeatedly flicked in fear and aversion toward the corner of the room. There, clinging to the fading warmth of the cooling hearth, stood two nomadic women. They conversed softly yet animatedly between themselves in a sharp language unfamiliar to most of those present, as if the surrounding events did not concern them in the slightest.

The head guard was the first to lose his temper. He slammed his fist heavily onto the oak tabletop, making the elder jump in fright and causing an inkwell resting on the edge to tilt dangerously.

“Enough!” he roared, shifting his furious, bloodshot gaze from the nomad women to Felix. “What the hell are these wenches doing here in the first place?! We are burying our people, the outpost is burning, and they stand there chirping in their bird tongue as if nothing happened!”

Felix did not so much as flinch. He merely shifted his gaze lazily from the enraged guard commander to his own fingers, maintaining a terrifyingly tranquil expression.

“They are here because they helped repel tonight's attack,” Allen replied in an even, emotionless tone.

“Helped?!” the guard's anger boiled over into a spit-flying scream. “They are witches! Are you blind?! They did something to the fire! Our walls ignited in a second, wooden beams exploded from a single spark, and the snow literally melted underfoot! It's their cursed magic!”

In the silence that followed the outburst, the calm, heavy voice of Isaac Grant resonated from where he had been standing quietly in the shadows by the door.

“It isn't magic.”

The guard shot a surprised, malicious glare at the former knight.

“You're defending them, Grant?! You saw those cursed flashes yourself!”

“I saw something I have crossed paths with before,” Isaac cut him off coldly, stepping closer to the desk and tossing down a charred piece of wood adorned with a peculiar fletching. “Red arrows work like that. No sorcery involved. Inside every such arrow is a fused, thin glass ampoule containing a combustible compound. Upon a hard impact, the capsule shatters, the compound mixes with the air, and ignites from the slightest spark, burning everything around it. You can't put this filth out with plain water. And it isn't magic.”

The head guard turned purple with rage, thick veins bulging along his neck. He opened his mouth wide, preparing to spew a fresh volley of curses, but Felix's calm voice cut him off sharply.

Allen didn't even raise his voice, yet in the silence of the room, his words rang heavy and distinct. He turned his eyes toward the nomad women, that deceptively polite, almost courteous smile gracing his lips once more.

“You wished to tell us something, did you not?”

Makha, the elder of the two women, took a confident step forward, not in the least phased by the gazes fixed upon her.

“I am the wife of Khan,” she stated calmly in fluent, albeit slightly accented Common. “My duty is to collect the bodies of our men and commit them to the earth, as ancient custom demands.”

The head guard nearly choked on such audacity. He attempted to spring up from his bench with a furious grunt, intending to shove the barbarian woman out, but froze instantly and plopped right back down. A fraction of a second meeting Felix's gaze was all it took.

“I understand you completely,” Allen nodded, folding his arms across his chest. “You are under no obligation to report to us. Yet... I would be genuinely grateful if you helped us fully uncover what transpired here. We are thankful for your assistance. You will be provided with wagons to transport the bodies.”

Makha merely gave a brief nod in response, signaling that the conversation was over. Both nomad women turned and were the first to leave the room, their soft boots treading silently across the floor. Following them, leaning heavily on a worn wooden cane and remaining wrapped in her shawl, the village elder slowly exited.

When the door closed behind the guests, Felix cast a brief glance at Isaac, gesturing for him to stay. The remaining outpost officials and militiamen began to disperse gradually until only the two of them were left in the room.

Grant, crossing his arms over his chest, fixed the young commander with an intense stare.

“Is this why you kept me here?” the knight asked directly, with no intention of beating around the bush.

Felix unhurriedly rose from behind his desk, walked over to the cracked window, and looked outside, where the black scars of the night's inferno still stained the snow.

“Over the past few weeks, skirmishes with the nomads have escalated to the absolute limit,” Allen spoke softly, without turning around. “We never used to be at war with these tribes - we traded, maintained neutrality. Now they seem to have lost their minds, throwing themselves at our lands wave after wave. But that isn't even the strangest or most dangerous aspect of their behavior. Clans that have been feuding with each other have suddenly united under a single ruler and are advancing as a unified front.”

Felix turned, looking directly into Grant's eyes with a sharp, discerning gaze.

“Vogel was the only man here who maintained even a fragile connection with them... and simultaneously the only one who knew how to fight them. Now he is gone. That is precisely why I needed someone who could fully compensate for that loss and hold the border from total collapse.”