Chapter 6
Healers in Shadows
Dawn arrived in a soft gray hush. The memory of the lake still clung to me like a film on skin. Water was pressing on my lungs until I could not breathe. Silence where sound should have been. I woke with my heart pounding and my fingers trembling, the dream receding but leaving cold behind my ribs.
A knock at the door, gentle as a prayer. Ana's voice followed, steady and caring.
"Good morning, Princess," she whispered.
I smoothed the sheet away from my shoulders and forced my voice to be calm. "Good morning, Ana."
Her eyes searched my face. "Do you still have the nightmares, Your Highness?"
I let a small smile come, brittle but true. "They visit sometimes. Let us start the day."
She set out a basin and a warm cloth. Her attentions were a small island of normal in the odd, dangerous sea of the palace. I bathed, letting hot water wash away sweat and the taste of iron. When I dressed in a modest, plain gown, I felt more myself. Not the fragile thing everyone expected. Not the shadow they had tried to bury.
"Where do you wish to go today, Princess?" Ana asked when I was ready.
"To the physician court," I said. "There is work to do."
Her mouth tightened, then softened. "Very well. But be careful."
I took her hand. "Thank you. I will be careful."
The physician court the near the chapel, was an old room that tried to keep its hands clean of politics. Marble pillars spaced like sentries. Shelves of jars and chalked notes. The senior physicians met in a small island of authority and habit, and they had little patience for a princess who picked up a scalpel the way others picked up fans.
They noticed me before I spoke. Geroth, the lead physician, folded his arms and made his displeasure plain. "Why are you here again?" he asked, tone sharp. "This is no play. Leave these matters to those trained in them."
A second man sneered. "You should preserve your decorum instead of prying into work beyond your station."
I pressed my lips together and let my chin lift. "Someone needs help," I said. "I will not leave until that person is tended."
The talk died down. Pride is loud until it is required to act. Then it becomes brittle.
A shout cut through the murmurs. "Emergency! The marquis's son collapsed!"
The hall became motionless. Courtiers clustered. Attendants pushed forward. Geroth barked orders like a man who was used to being obeyed. "Antiseptic! Fever herbs! Bring instruments!"
He turned to me with a look that dared me to answer. "You think you can handle this?"
I did not taste fear. I had done worse. I had been inside a white room with blood and machines and expectations, and I had learned how to steady my hands until they felt like my own. "If something goes wrong," I said, my voice steady, "I accept responsibility."
His jaw tightened, then he strode toward the patient because action is easier than argument. The child lay pale and trembling, his small chest hitching with each breath. A wound at his side had festered, and the infection had begun to spread into his blood. Sepsis, I thought, and smelled the iron tang of a body sliding toward collapse.
They debated procedure while the boy's color drained. Geroth spoke of tradition and humors, and prayer. I saw the truth beneath their words. Time mattered more than ceremony.
"We need antiseptics," I said, and this time my voice carried. "Clean the wound. Remove the necrotic tissue-" I paused when I realized they don't understand some of the medical terms I used.
"I mean, the dead tissues in his wound, the discolored one, and apply the proper dressing. Monitor his vitals constantly. I will oversee the procedure."
They looked at me as though I had proposed sorcery. Their eyes said the same thing: Who taught you these terms? They did not know my life. They did not know the hours I had spent bent over patients in a clinic where poverty taught urgency rather than patience.
Geroth's eyes narrowed, and he mockingly said. "Do you understand the gravity? If you fail, the child dies — do you accept responsibility?"
"I accept," I replied, my hands steady.
I feel the same adrenaline rush within me when I was still called Doctor Laurine, the same rush of heartbeat ready to rescue someone in need. Damn, missed those days.
Let me show this old hag what a true doctor can do. Watch and learn, idiots.
"Very well," Geroth snapped, but he stepped aside.
I showed the attendants how to irrigate the wound, how to separate the necrotic tissue without hurting what remained alive, how to lay powdered herbs and boiled linen in a way that would not seal a fever into flesh. I felt the old rhythm come back to me — breath, touch, knot, watch. The boy shivered and then steadied. Minutes felt like hours.
The fever loosened its grip.
I sigh in relief, seeing the child's condition. Finally, his condition is stabilized now. I turn my gaze to the old physicians watching me, speechless at what happened. Some attendants and servants of the physician's court watch me in awe.
Geroth muttered under his breath, but the noble attendants' gratitude was unmistakable.
When the worst had passed, the marquis himself bowed, eyes wet with relief. "Princess," he said, voice thick, "you have saved him. I am in your debt."
He was Marquis Scalenia, an honest man in a court that favored ceremony over service. Based on my knowledge, the Marquis is one of the high officials in the palace administration. He was kind and loves his people. Despite the surging corruption in the kingdom, there are still people who serve the kingdom with pure intention for the people, like this man in front of me.
I accepted his gratitude as if it were a promise. I smiled faintly.
"It is a healer's duty to save life."
"What can I do to repay you, Your highness?"
Oh, repay? Should I gamble something? Like a chest of gold or a vacation, perhaps?
Shut up, Laurine. Focus.
"If I needed tending one day, perhaps you would care for me as well." I smiled.
His face softened. "Consider it done, Princess. You have my word."
My encounter with Marquis Scalenia and his son started to pave the way for the physician's court to start seeing my ability. Though there are still unsaid words by some of the physicians but they didn't say it loudly.
Word travels. So does gratitude. The attendants who had watched with amusement two mornings before now watched with something like respect. Geroth muttered and turned away, pride stitched into silence.
The morning blurred into the kind of work I had always loved: hands that mended, herbs that soothed, the simple miracle of a bandage that held. Lunch was a second thought. The court buzzed in an offset rhythm, gossip about the king and the duke, small cruelties done in broad daylight, favors traded like coin.
By afternoon, I slipped out of the palace without fanfare. I wrapped a plain cloak about my shoulders and walked toward the part of the city that smelled of smoke and soup and honest labor. I wanted to see how the people fared beyond the marble. Aito's shop stood at the corner like an old friend.
Alchemia and Herbs smelled of sharp leaves and warm oil. Aito, the old man who owned the shop, greeted me with a grin that showed gaps where teeth once were. "Back again, young lady?" he asked.
"Just call me Laurine," I said, and the old man's laugh warmed the room.
I perused his shelves, touching new tools, asking questions that belied a simple purchase. I bought small instruments and a few medicinal vials and a sack of herbs to carry to a grateful mother whose name I had not forgotten. Aito wrapped my purchases with care, as if he knew the hands that would use them.
The slums spread out like a map of lives people had forgotten to notice. Narrow streets, laundry lines, smoke curling from windows. Robert's house stood where I had left it: low, a thin door, laughter that sounded brittle until you saw the work behind it. Robert ran to the gate when he saw me, hair a tangle, grin wide.
"Miss! You came!"
I knelt to his level and felt something in my chest soften. "I promised I would," I said. "Show me your mother."
Robert's mother greeted me at the threshold, cheeks less hollow than before. She had color returning to her face. I offered the herbs, the meal. She took them as if they were treasures.
"Thank you," she said, and her voice quivered with a gratitude that was almost too much.
"My name is Maria, and I was ill for days and couldn't work. Robert told me about you saving him from the guards. Thank you so much, Young lady."
"No worries for me, I visited to check on you again. I brought some herbs and food along the way," I said, and Maria constantly declined the offer, but I insisted. Her eyes, watery, nodded in gratitude.
We spoke quietly of the taxes and the shortages, of men gone to border posts and never returned, of doors closed and favors denied. Poverty dressed itself in many clothes, but the hunger and fear underneath were always the same. My heart clenched.
When the sun dipped lower, I bid them farewell. "Take good care of your mother, Robert," I said, offering Robert a smile. Maria bid me goodbye as well and reminded me to be careful along the way.
As twilight softened the alleys, a groan cut through the ordinary clatter. It was low, small, the sound of someone who had given up on being loud.
I froze.
Should I flee? I'm not familiar with this place!
The instinct to run arrived at once. This is the slums. Danger is never far. But the other instinct, the one that had set me on sleepless nights of study and long shifts with blood on my hands, was stronger. A healer cannot walk past suffering and call it not her problem.
If something went wrong, I would just immediately run. I can still run like I used to, right?
Yeah, run like a doctor.
I moved through the narrow passage and found a man slumped against the wall. Blood darkened his sleeve. The wound at his side leaked onto the stone, and the air smelled of iron and damp.
"Hey," I whispered, voice trembling yet firm. "Do you need help?"
He hissed and twisted. "Get away or I'll cut you down."
The warning was real. Fear tightened my throat for a breath.
I hesitated, unsure whether to step forward, then realized that my healer's instinct could not allow me to retreat. Noticing the deep stab wound to his left side, I said, "You're bleeding. We need to stop the bleeding."
He tensed. Watching me with docile eyes.
Then I knelt and did the only thing my hands knew how to do. "I am a healer," I said. "I will not leave you to die here."
His eyes searched mine, then he groaned again in pain, leaning back slightly, allowing me access to the wound.
Damn, this needs immediate treatment! If not, he could go into a hypovolemic shock caused by blood loss!
I cleaned the wound with boiled water and applied astringent herbs, my fingers steady though my heart beat faster than it had in years. There are rules to saving a person. Do not hurry the knot. Make every stitch count. Press until the blood slows. Speak softly so the patient will not panic.
I glanced again at the injured man. My hands shook for only a moment, then steadied, moving deliberately, assessing each injury, adjusting the dressing to reduce pain and prevent infection.
"You'll be alright if you remain still," I murmured, scanning him for further injuries. His only response was a weak groan.
"I need to know if you can move safely," I said, gently touching his shoulder to test his strength. Still no reply.
I tried again, softly: "If you let me, I can help more. Can you tell me where your home is? Maybe I can bring you there?"
Really, Laurine? How will you carry this man? Well, I can easily carry a patient in my previous life. Despite my petite body, I discipline myself physically. But the princess has a weak constitution. Maybe I should start exercising in the palace grounds? Aw, I missed the gym.
A shadow moved at the mouth of the alley. A presence I had seen before stepped into the dim. He stood tall and quiet, the cloak around him more like a shield than a fashion. Gray eyes took in the scene with the patience of a sentinel.
"Do you need help?" he asked.
Relief came like the sun.
Lucas.
The man with the quiet voice and a look that never quite settled into whatever he was supposed to be. I had met him in these alleys before. He had warned me not to draw attention. He had left like a ghost.
"You could say that," I said with a small smile. Though my hands did not stop moving. "If you would keep watch, I will do the rest."
He inclined his head. "I will be here."
Lucas remained at the edge of the alley, eyes scanning every shadow, his gray gaze sharp and commanding. I could feel his tension, the way his body shifted subtly, ready to act at a moment's notice. It was reassuring, and yet it made me slightly self-conscious — the presence of someone so capable, so alert, reminded me of how vulnerable this alley truly was.
"Do you always appear at the perfect moment?" I asked softly, a hint of teasing in my voice despite the situation.
He glanced at me, a corner of his mouth twitching faintly, almost like a ghost of a smile. "Only when someone seems to need saving," he replied evenly, but his eyes softened slightly as they flicked to the injured man.
I returned my attention to the patient. "Well, I appreciate your timing. Just... don't scare him any more than he already is."
Lucas crouched slightly, keeping his distance but making sure his presence was reassuring. "He won't be scared. But if anyone else shows up... I can't promise they'll leave unscathed."
I chuckled quietly, tension easing from my shoulders for a moment. "Noted. I'll remember that if I ever need an escort through the slums again."
He let the words hang for a moment, then added, "You move through these alleys like you belong here, but you don't."
I glanced at him, meeting his piercing gray eyes. "I always am. And besides... a healer can't simply walk away when someone is bleeding in front of her."
Lucas inclined his head slightly, as if conceding my point. "Then do what you must. I'll make sure no one interferes."
He kept watch while I cleaned and bandaged, and stitched. The injured man tried to twist once, then gave in and breathed easier. When the dressing was secure and the blood slowed to a manageable trickle, I prepared a poultice to ease the pain and reduce swelling.
He groaned softly, breaking the quiet tension. I returned my focus, carefully examining the deep stab wound along his left side. Blood had already soaked through his tunic, but I kept my hands steady, dabbing antiseptic over the cut to prevent infection.
"You're very calm," Lucas observed quietly. "Most would panic in a situation like this."
"I have to be," I replied, eyes steady on the man. "If I panic, he dies. I've faced worse than fear itself. This... this I can handle."
For a moment, we worked in companionable silence, the alley dim and silent around us except for the occasional distant call of a street vendor or the rustle of rats. I secured the dressing firmly, then prepared a small herbal poultice to reduce swelling and ease the pain.
"Who did this to you?" I asked softly to the bleeding man.
The man swallowed, then said dismisively. "Confidential."
My lips went into a thin line, understanding that some things are not meant for ears.
"Let's get him somewhere safe to recover," I murmured, testing his pulse. "He needs rest and warmth."
Lucas nodded, stepping closer to support the man. "There's a small cabin nearby. Follow me, and we'll move him carefully."
We moved him to a small cabin Lucas led me to, a place with the smell of herbs and an army of jars lined on a table. The room was spare but honest, and the man found a cot without complaint. I set him down gently and arranged blankets around him.
"You stitch well," Lucas observed after a time, watching my hands.
"You sound surprised," I said.
He did not answer at once. "You have steadiness in your hands that is not common," he said finally. "You do as if you have done this all your life."
"I have done this all my life," I said. The truth was a small bright thing to carry. "Once I was a doctor in another place. Names matter less than work."
His forehead creased seems out of confusion after what I said. But he didn't ask anything and just looked at the bleeding man with familiarity.
He nodded as if he understood more than I had said. "I will keep him here tonight," he said. "You should go home and not wander these alleys. The slums aren't forgiving."
There was a warning in there, not a threat, but it feels like a reassurance. I felt safe in a way I had not felt in the palace. Here, among cracked boards and patched roofs, people kept one another from falling.
"I am grateful," I said, and meant it.
Lucas looked at me for a long moment, gray against dim wood. "You move through the world like someone who does not belong to the place she walks but still knows all its secrets," he said. "Be careful, Laurine."
I smiled despite myself. "I learned to belong to places that would not have me," I said.
We left the cottage together. The night pressed close like a shawl. Lucas walked beside me a few steps and then paused at the shadow of a lane. "If you need anything," he said, "you will find me."
"Why do you help?" I asked before he vanished into black.
His answer was small, almost private. "Because some things should be saved."
I watched him go and felt something stir, not quite trust, not yet, but a recognition of a hand offered in the dark. In a city that kept its knives sharp and its smiles soft, an offered hand was a dangerous thing to accept. Yet acceptance was something I had learned to do when I had to save someone.
Back in my chamber, after Ana had set the basin and a pot of weak tea, I sat with the memory of the alley in my bones. The palace felt both closer and farther away. I had tended a failing life under a roof that smelled of smoke and sweat and hope that did not look for itself in mirrors.
I opened my small journal and wrote what I must not forget: descriptions of the wound, the poultice I used, the tools I had purchased from Aito, and the man who had watched the alley while I worked. I wrote his name down as Lucas because names hold the shape of stories.
I closed the book and let my hand rest over the page. The lake still had teeth, and the palace still hid knives. But in the dark between lamps and in the quiet of a small cot, I had done something that kept a heart beating. That felt like power enough for one night.
"I will not die again," I whispered to the empty room, because saying it out loud made it more true.
Outside, the city slept, and somewhere beyond the walls, plans moved like slow rivers. Inside me, a new current began to pull me into the stream of claims and counterclaims, of loyalty and secrecy and the dangerous art of being alive. I would learn where the currents ran. I would learn whose hands reached into them.
But for now, a man kept watch, a wound had been closed, and I had practiced the small, stubborn lifesaving thing I had always been born to do.