Night drifted in on silent feet. Oil lamps cast golden halos over the ward. Lucian followed Finley through rows of curtained beds, learning tasks: change the poultice on the pikeman with gangrene, spoon barley broth to the fevered girl, burn the soiled bandages in the brazier marked with Helior's rune.
Work kept his mind from darker worries, and the Sisters' gratitude came honest and unadorned. Even the smallest "Thank you, Master Rook" felt richer than a king's purse.
Between duties, Finley cupped her wrist absently—skin reddened where an impatient soldier had grabbed her earlier. Lucian's newfound Blessing flickered to life when he touched her pulse: translucent letters appeared over her arm.
❰Status – Finley Aster❱Insomnia · Sprained ankle · Mouth ulcer
He blinked. Still works… and shows ailments. Aloud he said, "Your wrist will swell by dawn if we don't wrap it."
"You think so?" she asked, surprised.
"Trust me." He bound the joint neatly. Then, recalling Father's lessons, he pressed a knuckle into a nerve at the base of her thumb. Finley inhaled sharply.
"Hurts?"
"Tingles—and now… oddly warm."
"Trip the meridian, blood flows, pain fades," he recited.
Sure enough, the crimson bruise lightened before their eyes. Finley stared, equal parts amazed and sheepish. "Aster's grace, how did you—?"
"A little outlandish medicine." He shrugged, hiding the flicker of green text awarding him ten Essence.
Finley's smile was soft as moonlight. "I think I shall enjoy working with you, Lucian Rook."