The infirmary hummed with quiet activity—healers mixing tinctures, patients shifting under blankets, the air thick with the scent of crushed herbs and simmering water. Elena moved slowly, absorbing everything with a familiarity that startled her.
Her nerves jittered, her muscles remembering triage, her mind remembering protocol, while the rest of her whispered firmly:
Do not touch anything.Do not doctor anything.Do not reveal you have a medical degree in a world without consent forms, sterile fields, or malpractice insurance.
Claire kept a gentle hand on her arm."You don't need to do anything," she murmured. "Just look."
Elena nodded, though her pulse had begun to climb.
Then a cry tore across the room.
A young soldier staggered inside, hand clamped to his abdomen. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and too fast. Before anyone reached him, Elena knew the severity. Her body reacted before her brain could catch up.
The healer pressed a poultice to the wound. The soldier winced, knees buckling.
"He can't wait," Elena murmured.
Claire blinked. "What?"
Elena stepped forward.
The healer moved to block her. "This is not your concern—"
"He's losing too much blood," Elena said. Her voice shifted into the autopilot of emergencies—steady, clipped, authoritative. "You need pressure. Not there—higher." She set her hands just above the wound. "And boil water. Now."
Her tone shocked the healer into stillness.
Claire's voice cut through. "Do as she says."
The room snapped into motion.
The soldier sagged, eyes fluttering. Elena guided him onto a nearby cot.
"What happened?" she asked, already assessing.
"Training… blade… slipped," he breathed.
She peeled away the cloth. The cut was long but clean—deep, but not catastrophic with proper care. Her instincts surged, fierce and automatic.
"Claire, I need—"
But Claire was already beside her, handing thread, boiled water, linen strips with clinical precision.
Elena blinked. "How did you—?"
Claire's smile tilted. "My brother isn't the only observant one in our family."
Fantastic, Elena thought. Because nothing screams 'lay low' like performing battlefield medicine in front of the princess.
The healer returned, wide-eyed as he watched Elena take control.
"You have training?" he whispered.
Elena didn't answer.She simply worked.
Her hands moved with practiced certainty—cleansing, assessing, stitching with even, deliberate motions. The soldier hissed but clenched his jaw, gripping the cot.
Claire watched in reverent silence.
The healer stared as if witnessing sorcery.
When Elena tied the final knot and wrapped the bandage, Claire exhaled in relief.The healer murmured a prayer.
"He would have bled more," Elena said quietly.
"He would have died," the healer whispered.
Claire turned to Elena with new weight in her gaze—wonder, respect, and something soft, something protective.
"Elena," she asked gently, "who were you in your world?"
A doctor. A specialist. A woman whose hands had brought life safely into the world, who had managed chaos with calm, who now stood in an ancient infirmary pretending not to be any of those things.
"I… helped people," she said.
Before Claire could ask anything else, a voice cut cleanly through the infirmary:
"Elena."
The room froze.
Soren stood in the doorway—still, shadowed, gaze locked on the blood drying on her fingers. His eyes moved to the soldier's sutured wound, assessing with surgical precision, then returned to her.
And something in them shifted. Not fury. Something quieter. Something far more dangerous.
He stepped toward her with measured restraint. "Come."
Elena swallowed. "Soren, wait—"
But he was already reaching for her.
His hand closed around her forearm—firm, unyielding, the grip of a man accustomed to command and not yet aware he was holding too tightly.
"Follow me," he said, voice low, brooking no refusal.
The healers bowed instinctively. Claire's eyes widened. Elena's pulse leapt in her throat.
"Soren—" Claire began sharply.
He did not stop. He pulled Elena with him, stride long and clipped, his cloak sweeping the air like a warning. The door struck shut behind them with a hollow slam that carried down the corridor.
"Let go," Elena hissed, stumbling to match his pace.
He didn't.
Not until he'd dragged her through a side passage, down a narrow set of stairs, and into a small, unused chamber lit only by a single high window—stone walls bare, air cool and untouched.
He pushed the door closed behind them with a sharp, final motion.
Only then did he release her. Elena immediately rubbed her arm—reflexive, quick, and unfortunately obvious.
Soren's eyes dropped to the spot where his hand had been. Something fractured across his expression—guilt, raw and fleeting, before he could conceal it.
"Elena," he said quietly, "did I hurt you?"
The question wasn't cold. It wasn't controlled.
It was something far more disarming, human.
She fought to steady her breathing. "I'm fine. You just… dragged me through half the citadel."
His jaw flexed. "I should not have held you so tightly."
For a moment, his hand lifted—as if he meant to touch her arm, to check the mark he feared he'd left. Then he stopped himself, fingers curling into a fist at his side.
He forced his gaze back to her face. He tried to reclaim his composure. Failed.
"Elena," he said, voice roughened by the effort, "we need to talk."
The air between them tightened. Her pulse thudded. His restraint trembled at the edges.
Whatever happened next would change everything.