The air in the clinic shifted without a sound.
There was no sudden flash of light, no violent displacement of air, and no magic circle. One second the room stood empty, quiet, orderly, and smelling faintly of dried lavender and clean linen. And the next, Sheila was standing near the center floor.
A fading breeze rippled the cream-colored privacy curtains before settling into stillness.
Wind Magic. At its standard level, the element was a versatile force of Caster Magic.
Compressing air into blades or creating a blast of wind. At its highest, most refined form, it ceased to be a simple shroud of air around the caster. The boundary between mage controlling wind and mage becoming wind dissolved completely. Sheila didn't merely ride the air to travel; her physical body briefly converted into wind, allowing her to step through distance as a silent gust and reassemble at will.
She stood 5'11", her slim, graceful silhouette casting a long shadow under the dimmed lamps. In her arms, held with practiced, effortless balance, was Gajeel. She let out a slow, barely audible exhale through her nose. The scent of stale cigarette smoke clung faintly to her silk necktie and dark hair.
Moving with near-silent precision despite her polished high heels, she crossed the dark-wood floor toward the first patient bed. She lowered the heavy child down onto the crisp white sheets with gentle care. Once Gajeel was settled, Sheila reached up with both hands, unbuttoning her fitted black suit jacket.
Her movement revealed her bare hands and forearms, stripped of her signature leather gloves. Where the black leather usually rested, her pale skin was marred by dark burn marks wrapping around her knuckles and wrists.
Without a word, she shed the jacket and draped it smoothly over Gajeel's torso and legs, using the heavy tailored fabric as a blanket.
'I need a smoke', she thought, her expression unreadable. She turned and stepped toward her private quarters in the rear. Her lighter was on the bedside table inside. A few moments later, Sheila emerged from the dark doorway.
A freshly lit cigarette rested between her lips, a thin thread of gray smoke trailing up past her severe, high cheekbones. Her strange, dull lusterless eyes—void of light, like a frosted glass mirror—stared down at the unconscious boy.
She pulled a low wooden stool over to the bedside and sat down. Her gaze shifted. The cold, analytical veil that normally guarded her features softened slightly, a rare shift in her expression that she reserved exclusively for children. It was the same look she gave Juvia and Albion, a look no adult in Phantom Lord, not even Master Jose or Damien, had ever seen from her.
"Let's assess the damage," she murmured quietly to the quiet room.
Sheila was a rare commodity in the kingdom's guild system: a qualified doctor who also happened to be a master healer. She held a meticulous understanding of the human body. Where most mages saw a vessel for magic, Sheila saw an intricate clockwork system.
Her dull eyes swept over Gajeel's motionless frame, her mind instantly mapping the damage.
'Broken nose, bridge is displaced. Deep tearing along the right arm, bad muscle contusions under all that dried blood. The third rib on the left is cracked, likely leaking into the lining.'
She leaned in, her gaze dropping to his hands.
'The radius in the left wrist is snapped completely through. And blunt-force bruising everywhere else—shoulders, back, thighs…'
Sheila took a slow, deliberate drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke roll over her tongue before exhaling it away from the bed.
'Damien didn't intend to kill him. Had he intended to take his life, the child would already be dead. Even with my qualifications, bringing back the dead is impossible.'
She expanded her awareness slightly. Through Mahō Perception, she read the magical energy around Gajeel.
Every living being and magical object continuously released a subtle pressure into the world—their Mahō Signature. To an ordinary person, it was invisible. To a trained practitioner, it was as distinct as a voice.
Gajeel's container was completely dry. There wasn't a single spark of Ethernano circulating through his core. It wasn't surprising, a child taking a stand against one of Phantom Lord's top battle-class mages was bound to empty his reserves instantly.
Her perception brushed past the bed, expanding through the heavy rear door into her personal bedroom. Two distinct, familiar signatures rested inside. One was soft, fluid, and deep like still water—Juvia. The other was dense, complex, and eerie—Albion.
'They're asleep. It's late. Juvia is responsible enough to ensure Albion isn't staying up past his limits.'
Satisfied, Sheila turned her full attention back to the nine-year-old on the bed. She stood up, leaning over Gajeel, and placed both bare hands—burns exposed—an inch above his chest.
Healing Magic was a specialized discipline of Caster Magic. It did not magically construct new biological material out of nothing. Instead, it acted as a catalyst, flooding damaged tissue with refined magic to force the body's natural recovery to operate beyond its normal speed.
A warm, brilliant white light ignited around Sheila's palms.
For a novice healer, the process was crude. Surface-level closing of minor cuts or dulling sprains. But Sheila's application was much more precise. Guided by her Mahō Perception, she could see the exact density and flow of her own energy as it penetrated flesh and bone. She manipulated the white light down to the cellular level. Minutes bled together in the quiet clinic.
Slowly, the dark purple bruises along Gajeel's ribs faded into faint, pale yellow marks. The swelling around his nose reduced, the bone knitting cleanly into place. Sheila reached down with a clean cotton cloth, gently wiping away the dried blood along his arm, repairing the torn layers beneath.
Eventually, the white light around her hands dimmed and dispersed.
Gajeel's breathing was smooth, rhythmic, and deep. His condition had stabilized completely.
She had healed his internal bleeding, his broken rib, his face, and his bruised muscles. However, she stopped before touching his left wrist. That part remained fractured, only healed enough to prevent further damage.
'A week,' Sheila reasoned silently, looking at the child's spiked black hair. 'It will take at least seven days of rest for that bone to knit naturally.'
She knew very little about Gajeel Lionheart, but their brief interactions had revealed enough. He was a child who acted on impulse, a fight-first, think-later mentality. If she healed him completely, he would likely charge straight back out the door to find Damien again.
'He needs a physical reminder that he is not invincible. If he wakes tomorrow and requests that I heal it, I will do so. He is my patient. But for tonight, the lesson remains.'
Sheila reached up, untied her black silk necktie, and slipped it off. She laid it neatly over her suit jacket on Gajeel's chest, tucking the edges in so the heavy fabric draped securely over his small frame like a tailored quilt.
Satisfied, she turned away. She walked quietly across the dark wood, her heels making soft, muted clicks against the floor, and reached for the handle of her bedroom door.
She pushed it open, stepping into the quiet darkness of her room.
Sheila stopped dead in her tracks. Her lusterless eyes widened slightly, the cigarette held loosely between her fingers as she stared at the scene before her.