She straightened slowly, wiping the blood from her hands onto the hem of her faded robe. Her gaze swept the dead field, lingering on the distant tree line where the mist grew thicker.

“Go,” she said at last, her voice steady. “Find the mule, if it still lingers near the stream. We will need it.”

The girl blinked, startled. “You would waste our beast on him?”

“He cannot walk, and we cannot drag him across the earth without leaving a trail,” the shaman replied. “Two poles, bound together. We will lash him to a sled. The animal will bear the weight.”

The girl hesitated, her scarred brow furrowed in anger, but she obeyed. She turned and ran toward the edge of the battlefield, her small form weaving between corpses and broken banners.

The shaman remained at the warrior’s side, placing one hand on his chest again. She felt the faint rhythm still fighting within him, fragile but unyielding. Her eyes softened for the first time, though her lips held no smile.

“You are not yet meant for the earth,” she murmured.

Moments later, the girl returned, leading a tired mule with a rope around its neck. The creature snorted nervously, refusing at first to step closer to the blood-soaked soil. With a firm tug and whispered word, the shaman calmed it, her staff tapping once against the ground.

Together, they bound two long branches into a rough frame, lashing them into the shape of a narrow “V.” Strips of cloth and rope made a crude bedding across the poles. With gritted teeth, the girl helped lift the warrior’s limp body onto the carrier, strapping him tight so he would not slide free.

At last, the mule was harnessed to the frame. The shaman laid her hand on its flank, whispering soft words until the beast stilled and accepted its burden.

The girl stood back, breathing hard, her face pale with disgust. “He weighs more than he’s worth.”

The shaman adjusted her staff and began to walk, leading the mule forward. “Then we will see if the spirits agree.”