"Table. Now." I point, and my voice comes out steady. Authoritative. The voice I used to use when village men tried to tell me how to heal their wives.
They stare at me.
"Now," I snap, already moving to the basin, scrubbing my hands with harsh soap.
They obey.
I don't let myself think about what I'm doing. I justdo. Pull back the soldier's shirt—he hisses but doesn't fight me. Assess the wound: deep gash across the ribs, maybe six inches long, bleeding freely but not arterial. Not fatal if I'm fast.
Fatal if I'm not.
"Hold him still."
I work the way I was taught. The way I've done a hundred times before.
Clean the wound with distilled alcohol—the soldier jerks and curses, but his friends hold him down. Pack it with yarrow to slow the bleeding. Thread the curved needle with steady hands that don't shake even though my heart is hammering against my ribs.
Stitch. Pull. Tie. Repeat.
The soldier grits his teeth but doesn't scream. Good. Strong.
"Done." I tie off the last stitch and step back, wiping blood from my fingers. "Keep it clean. Change the dressing twice daily—morning and night. If it starts to smell foul or he spikes a fever, come find me immediately."
One of the uninjured soldiers blinks at me like he's seeing me for the first time. "You're... the auction girl."
The words hit like a slap.
Auction girl.
Not healer. Not Annora. Just... merchandise.
I force my voice to stay level. "I'm a healer."
They exchange looks. Something passes between them—reassessment, maybe. Or just surprise that the witch didn't turn their friend into a toad.
The one who spoke nods slowly. "Thank you."
I'm about to answer when the airchanges.
Goes heavy. Thick.
Like a storm rolling in, but wrong. Worse.
I look up.
Vorak fills the doorway.
He's staring at me.
At my hands, still flecked with blood.
At the soldier on the table.
At the needle in my hand.
Something flickers across his face—too fast to name, but I catch the edge of it. Surprise? Concern?
Then his whole body goestight.
