Hans shoved the cushion aside before their wagon even finished its first turn down the mountain.
Hajin eased the mules through frozen ruts while Vella caught the padding, keeping Hans's bandaged leg raised above the floorboards. The old hunter settled against the salt sack with his remaining hand, refusing comfort without surrendering the elevation he needed.
"Your spine can keep its opinions," she said, sliding the cushion beneath his calf instead of arguing, "but that leg stays raised."
"Curing salt supports a man honestly." Hans slapped the sack and glared at the cushion like it owed him rent.
"It also stays out of your wound."
"The last garrison gave me one of those forty years ago," he grumbled, lifting his foot clear of a loose grain, "and it was useless then too."
Vella tucked the cloth beneath his heel with a patience Hajin admired from the driving bench.
