They gave me a room that used to be a storage area.
That alone told me how the academy really felt.
The corridor was quiet, tucked away in the eastern wing of Rosevale where few students passed unless they were lost or trying to avoid notice. The stone walls were clean but bare, with softer lighting than the grand halls of the main complex. No banners. No signs of prestige.
Just a plaque mounted beside the door.
Medical Support, Restricted Access
Authorized Personnel Only
I stared at it longer than I probably should have.
"This is temporary," Headmistress Valentina Cross said from behind me. "If your performance continues to be… exceptional, accommodations will improve."
Performance.
The word sat badly in my chest.
Still, I nodded. "Understood."
She gestured for me to open the door.
Inside, the room was larger than I expected. Not luxurious, but practical. A wide treatment bed dominated the center, made from reinforced wood etched with containment runes. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with linens, salves, basic alchemical supplies, and several unfamiliar crystals humming with energy.
Privacy wards glowed faintly along the ceiling, already active.
A small desk sat near the far wall, neatly arranged with documents, ink, and a thick stack of parchment bound together by a silver clip.
Valentina crossed the room and picked up the stack.
"These are your consent forms," she said, handing them to me. "Every patient signs one. No exceptions."
I flipped through the pages.
They were… detailed.
Explicit, even—not in the ways people might assume. Each section outlined expectations, boundaries, risks, and rights with ruthless clarity. There were clauses about withdrawal of consent, emergency termination, confidentiality, and post-treatment care.
One section caught my eye.
The patient acknowledges that pleasure-based activation is a medical mechanism, not an invitation to personal intimacy beyond the scope of treatment.
My throat tightened.
"You anticipated problems," I said.
"I anticipated people," Valentina replied. "Some will want to use you. Others will want to provoke you. These forms protect you from both."
"And if someone refuses to sign?"
"Then they don't receive treatment."
Simple. Clean.
She gestured toward the shelves. "You'll have an aide assigned for scheduling and sanitation. They will not stay during treatments."
"Good," I said immediately.
Valentina's gaze sharpened, approving. "You learn quickly."
She moved to the door, then paused.
"One more thing," she said. "You are not obligated to promote your services. However, word will spread regardless. How you conduct yourself now will determine whether you are seen as a scandal or a necessity."
With that, she left.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
I was alone.
With my clinic.
I exhaled slowly and sat on the edge of the treatment bed, rubbing my hands together. The warmth was still there—muted now, resting beneath my skin like embers waiting for breath.
This was real.
Not a nightmare. Not a temporary reprieve.
This was my job.
The first appointment was scheduled less than an hour later.
I hadn't even finished organizing the shelves when there was a knock at the door.
Tentative. Hesitant.
"Come in," I said.
The door opened slowly to reveal a second-year combat student I vaguely recognized from the training grounds. Broad shoulders. Bruised knuckles. His posture was stiff, eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
"I—uh," he began. "They said you could… help?"
I gestured to the chair near the bed. "What's the injury?"
"Pulled muscles. Shoulder and side," he said quickly. "Instructor said light magic would take days. Tournament qualifiers are tomorrow."
I nodded. "Have you read the consent form?"
His ears turned red. "Yes."
"And you understand it?"
"Yes."
"And you're here voluntarily?"
He swallowed. "Yes."
"Alright," I said, keeping my voice calm and even. "Sit on the bed. Shirt off."
He complied with the rigid obedience of someone bracing for embarrassment.
I took a breath and placed my hand lightly against his shoulder.
The diagnostic sense activated instantly.
Strained muscle fibers. Micro-tears. Inflammation. Nothing severe.
Minor injury.
Good.
"This won't take long," I said. "Focus on breathing. Don't try to rush the response."
He nodded, jaw clenched.
I adjusted my touch, grounding myself like I had with Miriam—not pushing, not hesitating. The warmth flowed naturally this time, spreading into the damaged tissue.
His breath hitched.
The glow was faint, barely visible, but effective.
[Patient Receptiveness: 22%]
[Healing Output: Minor]
The torn fibers knitted together smoothly, inflammation receding like a tide pulled back by the moon.
Ten minutes later, it was done.
He flexed his shoulder slowly, eyes widening.
"It doesn't hurt," he said, surprised.
"You're healed," I replied. "Take it easy today. Your body still needs to adjust."
He stood, then paused at the door.
"…Thank you," he said quietly.
When he left, my system chimed softly.
[Minor Healing Completed]
[Stamina +1]
[Healing Efficiency Improved]
I sank back against the bed, heart racing.
It worked.
Without fear. Without shame.
Just… medicine.
By midday, I'd seen four more patients.
Sprains. Fatigue. Minor magical backlash from overcasting.
Nothing dramatic.
But each session made the whispers outside the clinic louder.
By afternoon, a small crowd had gathered at the far end of the corridor—students pretending to pass by while sneaking glances at the plaque.
I tried not to think about it.
The next name on the schedule made my pulse jump.
Seraphina Valdris.
I stood straighter as the knock came—precise, controlled, confident.
"Enter."
The door opened, and cold seemed to follow her in.
Seraphina Valdris looked just as she had in the medical wing—silver hair immaculate, posture rigid, eyes sharp and distant. Frost traced faint patterns along her fingertips, barely contained beneath pale skin.
She closed the door behind her and turned to face me.
"This room will suffice," she said coolly.
"Please have a seat," I replied, gesturing to the bed.
She didn't move.
"I will remain standing," she said. "Time is valuable."
I nodded. "As you wish."
She held out a folded parchment. "The consent form. Signed."
I took it, scanning quickly. Everything was in order.
"Before we begin," I said, "I need to explain the process again. Your condition is not minor. Progress will be gradual."
"I'm aware," she said. "I am not expecting a miracle."
Her eyes flicked briefly to the treatment bed, then back to my face.
"I expect competence."
I met her gaze evenly. "Then we'll get along."
Something unreadable passed through her eyes.
"Proceed," she said.
I stepped closer, careful not to touch her yet. "This will require cooperation. If you resist the sensation, the healing will stall."
She laughed softly. "You assume I have any intention of enjoying this."
"That isn't what matters," I said calmly. "What matters is whether your body responds."
Her jaw tightened.
I reached out and placed my hand against her wrist.
The cold was shocking.
Even through the warmth in my palm, it felt like touching ice left too long in the snow.
The diagnostic sense flared violently.
Permafrost Heart.
Dense. Layered. Old.
This wasn't a simple curse.
It had been with her for years.
"Interesting," I murmured before I could stop myself.
Her eyes narrowed. "What."
"This curse isn't just freezing you," I said slowly. "It's insulating itself. Cutting off sensation as a defense mechanism."
"Can you cure it?" she asked flatly.
"Eventually," I said. "But not today."
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"Today," I continued, "we aim for one thing only—restoring sensation."
Her breath hitched, just barely.
I adjusted my grip, grounding myself, and let the warmth flow.
The glow responded instantly—brighter than it had with any of the minor injuries.
[Patient Receptiveness: 12%]
[Cure Resistance: Extreme]
Seraphina inhaled sharply.
Her composure cracked for just a moment.
"I… felt that," she said quietly.
"Yes," I replied. "And that's progress."
Her eyes met mine, something like surprise flickering beneath the ice.
"For the record," she said, voice low, "I dislike this already."
I allowed myself a small smile.
"Good," I said. "That means the curse is losing."
Outside the clinic, the corridor had gone silent.
And somewhere in the academy, someone was already writing letters they would regret.