The field clinic wasn't really a clinic.
Half-ripped at the side, one corner weighed down with a broken sword instead of a proper stake. The inside smelled like burned cloth, sweat, and blood.
Lindarion crouched beside the cot and peeled back the bandage on the soldier's arm. The flesh underneath was torn clean, too clean. Like something sharp had passed through without hesitation.
The man flinched but didn't cry out.
"You'll keep the arm," Lindarion muttered. "Barely."
The soldier tried to smile. Failed.
Lindarion held one hand above the wound and exhaled. Divine mana glowed faintly along his palm, gold and white, not bright enough to draw attention, just enough to help.
The body did most of the work.
His mana just nudged it along.
"I thought elves didn't use divine magic," a voice said from behind him.
Lindarion didn't look up. "Most don't."
The wound pulsed once under his hand. Not with pain, just warmth. The torn flesh knit just a little cleaner. The bleeding slowed. Not a full recovery, but enough to keep the man from losing the limb.
He moved to the next cot.
This one wasn't a soldier. A young boy. Couldn't have been more than ten. Face smudged with soot. A long burn trailed down his side, wrapped badly by someone in a rush.
"Hey," Lindarion said quietly, kneeling. "This'll feel strange. Not painful. Just warm."
The boy didn't answer.
Eyes locked forward. Probably still in shock.
Lindarion pressed his hand gently against the burn.
The divine mana shimmered again, brighter this time. Burns were different. Trickier. He slowed his breathing. Let the magic pull instead of push.
'Don't force it. Just guide it.'
A few seconds passed.
Lindarion nodded to himself. That was enough.
He stood and wiped his palm on the edge of his coat.
He moved through them without drama, shoulder to shoulder with real healers who were too exhausted to ask questions. They didn't care if he was a prince. They didn't care what his name was.
He had clean hands and working mana.
That made him useful.
Someone nudged him gently from the side, an older woman with healer markings on her sleeves. Her face was lined, her eyes tired.
"You've done this before?" she asked.
"You're fast," she said.
She nodded back once. "Good. We need fast."
Another patient. Another injury. He used divine mana again, never too much. Just enough to stabilize. Just enough to keep the rest from dying on the table.
Ashwing's voice whispered in his mind. "You're pushing your core."
"You haven't eaten in ten hours."
"You're gonna pass out."
The dragon knew better.
This wasn't about proving anything.
It was about keeping the number from getting worse.
Another soldier grabbed his arm as he passed. "My brother—he's missing a leg—down by the edge of the treeline—"
"Someone's already there," Lindarion said. "Go get him. Tell them to send him back here."
The soldier blinked like he hadn't expected an answer. Then he ran.
Patient after patient.
Not every wound could be helped.
Some he had to leave.
But he'd learned to do it.
'You don't save everyone. You save what you can.'
It didn't make it easier. Just possible.
He stopped beside a collapsed woman, breathing shallow. Her fingers trembled. Mana exhaustion. Nothing lethal. Just burnout.
He didn't use divine magic.
He took her hand and gave her some of his mana directly.
A trick most wouldn't recommend. But he'd done it before. Carefully.
Her eyes fluttered open five seconds later.
A soldier came running into the tent, eyes wide. "We've got another wave pushing the southern slope. They're coming through the ruins."
Someone swore behind him.
The head healer looked up from a wounded child. "We're out of shields. Out of barriers. If that line breaks—"
"It won't," Lindarion said.
He didn't raise his voice.
He just turned and walked out of the tent again.
Ashwing moved to his shoulder as he stepped into the muddy clearing beyond the trees.
"You're gonna try something dumb, aren't you," the dragon muttered.
'No,' Lindarion thought. 'I'm gonna try something necessary.'
Lightning coiled through his fingers.
The air shifted. The trees shuddered.
If the mutants wanted to push the line—
They'd have to go through him first.
The camp was quieter now.
Not calm, never calm, but quieter. Healers moved in and out of the tents, shadows under their eyes, hands glowing faintly with whatever mana they had left.
Civilians huddled near the outer tree line, wrapped in whatever hadn't burned. Children cried without tears.
The pressure in the air had thinned slightly, like the city's screams had finally stopped echoing this far out.
Lindarion stood with his sleeves rolled up, one palm resting over a woman's arm wound. His divine affinity flickered, dim but steady.
He wasn't doing anything complex. Just enough to help the wound close cleaner, faster. Make the healer's job easier. One less scar in a camp full of them.
"You're burning mana again," Ashwing said from his shoulder, tone dry. "You know you're not a saint, right?"
'I'm not trying to be one.'
"Then stop pretending you can fix everything yourself."
Ashwing huffed quietly through the bond.
"You done over there, golden boy?" came a familiar voice behind him.
His hand froze mid-motion.
Sylric Lirandel stood in the clearing.
Same shaggy black hair. Same beard like he forgot to finish shaving. Same slouched posture like he'd rather be horizontal.
His long coat had a rip across one sleeve, and he was chewing on something that looked like it might've once been fruit.
The soldier next to him looked relieved just to be away from the front.