His massive hand enveloped the delicate tools with surprising care, making them look like children's toys. "Duration?"
"Five minutes minimum at a full boil. More is better."
A curt nod, but I caught the telltale signs—the rigid set of his shoulders, the rhythmic clenching of his free hand. His nephew lay dying, and all Ruka could offer was obedience to a stranger's commands and faith that I wouldn't fail again.
I pivoted back to Morg, who observed me with the penetrating gaze of a raptor. "I need to reopen the incision," I said, enunciating carefully. "I have medication to numb the site, but it won't be sufficient. Not for what I have to do. Do you have anything for pain management? Something to induce unconsciousness?"
Recognition flickered across Morg's weathered features. She addressed Ruka in rapid-fire Orcish, her tone confident.
"She has herbs," Ruka relayed. "A tea that brings deep sleep. He won't feel pain."
The knot in my chest loosened fractionally. "Preparation time?"
Another brief exchange.
"Ten minutes," Ruka said. "Possibly less."
"Then let's get started."
Despite working in conditions that would've sent my residency director into cardiac arrest, we moved with the synchronized efficiency of a well-oiled surgical team. Morg vanished to brew her tea while Ruka remained stationed beside Ardin, his presence both translator and sentinel. The boy's breathing came in shallow gasps, each exhale carrying heat like a furnace.
Ryhain materialized first, her movements precise despite the urgency crackling through the air. She bore a large tray laden with a pot of roiling water and my instruments—now gleaming like silver promises on a spotless cloth. Every instruction followed to perfection.
"Beautiful work," I said, indicating a cleared space beside Ardin's makeshift bed. "Right there."
I approached the pot, testing the water's fury with a tentative fingertip before plunging both hands in to the wrists. The scalding heat bit deep, painting my skin an angry pink, but I scrubbed with religious fervor—between fingers, beneath nails, up forearms. In a proper OR, I'd have sterile brushes and chlorhexidine. Here, I had boiling water and sheer willpower.
When the pain became unbearable, I yanked my hands free and held them aloft, letting them air dry. From my bag, I fished out latex gloves, snapping them on with a satisfying pop. The familiar sensation anchored me, a fragment of my world bleeding into this impossible one.
A shadow shifted in my peripheral vision. Morg had returned bearing a wooden cup, tendrils of steam curling from whatever brew she'd concocted. But before approaching Ardin, she submerged her own hands in the scalding water. Hertechnique was methodical, thorough—scrubbing up those thick forearms with the same devotion I'd demonstrated.
Respect bloomed in my chest. This woman might lack my formal training, but she grasped the essentials. Cleanliness. Preparation. The invisible assassins that murdered as efficiently as any weapon.
Our gazes locked across the room, and something electric passed between us. Recognition. Understanding that needed no translation.
Morg dried her hands and glided to Ardin's side, murmuring in orcish as she cradled his head with unexpected tenderness. Ruka supported his nephew while Morg guided the cup to those cracked lips. The boy stirred faintly, some primal instinct compelling him to swallow even through the fever's grip.
"Perfect," I breathed, watching them coax the entire dose down his throat. "That's perfect."
We waited. I used the precious minutes to arrange my instruments—scalpel, forceps, scissors, irrigation syringe, and sutures all positioned in surgical order. My hands held steady despite the adrenaline singing through my veins. This was my calling, even if the stage bore no resemblance to anything I'd imagined.
Ruka circled the room with quiet purpose, coaxing flame to life. The first candles he settled into iron sconces jutting from the stone walls, each wick catching with a soft whoosh until amber light devoured the shadows piece by piece. Then he seized a long taper, his towering frame stretching upward with an ease that made the impossible look effortless, reaching toward the massive iron chandelier suspended above the bed.
One by one, the candles in the chandelier came to life. Light cascaded downward in golden waves, bathing Ardin's fever-flushed skin in a glow that transformed our crude operating theater into something almost sacred. Not the sterileglare of hospital fluorescents—this was warmer, alive, dancing with each flicker—but it chased away every treacherous shadow that might conceal what I needed to see.
"Better?" Ruka's voice rumbled through the transformed space, his eyes catching mine as he snuffed the taper between moistened fingers.
"Much better," I said, and meant it. The gratitude in my voice surprised even me. Every detail stood revealed now—the subtle discoloration of tissue, the sheen of perspiration, the truth the darkness would have hidden. "Thank you."
A single nod, economical and sure, then he melted back to his station near Ardin's head. Ready. Waiting.
Minutes crawled past before Morg leaned over her patient, fingers checking the flutter of pulse at his throat, the glaze of his eyes, the cadence of breath moving through his chest. She pressed against his shoulder—gentle at first, then with increasing force. Nothing. Not even a twitch. She spoke to Ruka, her words carrying the weight of certainty.
"He's sleeping," Ruka translated, though Ardin's face had already told me the story. The anguish had melted from his features, replaced by the slack peace of deep unconsciousness, his breathing rolling in steady, hypnotic waves. "He won't wake."
I nodded, snapping on a second pair of gloves over the first—armor against the invisible enemy. "Then let's begin."
The scalpel settled into my palm like an old friend, its weight a familiar comfort in the uncertain terrain ahead. "Morg, I need you to hold the bowl here." I gestured to the space beside Ardin's wound, miming the motion when words failed me. Her dark eyes flashed with understanding, and she positioned herself with the wooden bowl at the ready, steady as stone.
