"Meaning I have to go back in." I held his gaze, refusing to soften the truth. "Open the wound, hunt down whatever's festering in there, cut away the infected tissue, and seal him up right this time." My eyes flicked to Ardin's fever-bright cheeks, the rapid flutter of his chest. "If I don't, the infection spreads. Goes septic. And then..."
I didn't finish. I didn't have to.
The silence stretched between us like a taut wire.
Ruka stared at his nephew, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face. When he finally spoke, his voice came out like gravel. "What do you need?"
Relief flooded through me. "The healer. Is she still here? I can't do this alone—I need hands that know what they're doing. Someone who understands the body's language." I gestured to my medical bag. "I've got local anesthetic, but I'll need more than that. I need someone who can work with me, not just watch."
A single, decisive nod. "I'll bring her."
He pivoted and strode from the room, his footfalls like thunder in the hallway. His voice rang out in sharp orcish, the urgency transcending the barrier of language.
I turned back to Ardin and pressed my palm to his burning forehead. Too hot. Still too hot. "Stay with me," I murmured. "Just a little longer. I've got you."
The minutes crawled by like wounded things. I used them to prepare—not just my instruments, but my mind. The procedure played out behind my eyes in vivid detail. Reopenthe incision, explore the wound cavity systematically, locate the fragment, debride the dead tissue, irrigate until the water runs clear, then close in careful layers. Delicate work under the best circumstances. Without proper surgical lighting or a sterile field? A nightmare.
But I'd trained for nightmares.
Medical school felt like another lifetime ago, but one memory surfaced with crystalline clarity—the elective I'd taken on a whim. Tactical Casualty Care. Dr. Hernandez had been an Army surgeon before academia claimed her, and she'd run that course like we were deploying to a war zone. We'd worked in tents. In shadows. With whatever supplies we could scrounge. She'd been relentless, drilling into us that medicine was rarely convenient.
"You think you'll always have everything you need?" Her voice echoed in my memory, sharp as a scalpel. "You won't. But your patient will still be dying, and they'll still need you to figure it out."
I'd never thought I'd use that training. My future had looked so clean—a well-lit ER, state-of-the-art equipment, a full surgical team at my back.
Not this. Not an Orc settlement deep in uncharted territory, with a boy's life balanced on the edge of a blade.
But here I was. And Ardin needed every lesson, every improvisation, every desperate trick Dr. Hernandez had beaten into us.
I drew a slow breath, finding my center in the chaos. I could do this. Failure wasn't an option.
Footsteps approached—two sets this time. Ruka filled the doorway, and beside him stood an older Orc woman. She was shorter than him but carried herself with the kind of quiet authority I'd seen in veteran ER nurses—the ones who'd forgotten more about saving lives than most doctors would everlearn. Silver threaded through her dark hair, pulled back in a thick braid, and her eyes were sharp as they swept the room, cataloging everything in seconds.
She spoke to Ruka in rapid orcish, her tone all business.
"This is Morg," Ruka said, his hand resting briefly on her shoulder. "She's been the healer for our clan for fifty years."
I met Morg's ochre eyes directly. "Thank you for coming. I need your help."
Morg studied me with an intensity that felt like being weighed and measured. Then she nodded once—a gesture that somehow conveyed both acceptance and warning—and moved to Ardin's side. Her weathered hands were surprisingly gentle as she examined him. Checking his pulse at the throat, lifting his eyelids, pressing her palm to his forehead. When she peeled back the bandage to expose the wound, her expression went dark as storm clouds.
She spoke rapidly to Ruka, gesturing at the angry red flesh.
"She says the infection is deep," Ruka translated, his voice tight. "That it's spreading fast."
"I know," I said. "I need to reopen the wound and find what's causing it. There's something still in there—something I missed during the first surgery." The words tasted like ash, but there was no room for pride now. Only action. "I'll need boiling water. As much as you can get."
Ruka turned to Ryhain, who'd been standing silently near the door like a sentinel. She met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them, then nodded sharply and vanished.
The thunder of footsteps announced his arrival before he burst through the doorway—a male Orc, chest heaving like a bellows, my medical bag clutched against his torso like precious cargo. Sweat carved rivulets down his gray-green skin, catching the dim light.
He'd sprinted the entire distance.
"Thank you," I breathed, accepting the bag with both hands. Its familiar weight settled something anxious in my chest. I placed it on the small table beside Ardin's bed and pulled the zipper, the metallic rasp cutting through the tense silence. My fingers found their targets by muscle memory alone—sutures, gauze, antiseptic, local anesthetic. And there, nestled in its own compartment, my surgical kit. I extracted the scalpel and forceps, their sterile packaging crinkling softly.
Ruka materialized at my shoulder, so close his body heat washed over me in waves.
I extended the instruments toward him. "These need to go in boiling water. Sterilization."