✶✶✶
PERHAPS the work of a healer was never meant for those who still had a heart.
It had been some time since Patrick Halin, healer, sixth rank, last entertained the thought. Not coincidentally, it had also been the last time he’d seen him.
“Sir Ozhorn! A pleasure to be working with you again!”
To the tall, raven-haired man who had just appeared in their camp, Halin gave a neat, crisp, perfectly ninety-degree bow.
Kurt Ozhorn had once been his superior at the central infirmary and, without question, among the finest healers Halin had ever known. Then, one day, with no announcement or explanation, Ozhorn had vanished—transferred to some obscure port town far from the capital—and the institution had never quite recovered.
For all the reverence it attracted, healing remained widely misunderstood. To the layman, it was a kind of benevolent sorcery: channel mana into the wound and let the magic do the work. In truth, it was nothing of the sort.
The art demanded precision. Intention, control—every pulse of mana had to be willed into place: here to reconnect a nerve, there to seal a vessel, elsewhere to stimulate regrowth. There were no shortcuts. Only decisions, each with consequences.
To make such decisions rapidly and accurately, healers had to become walking encyclopedias of anatomy. They had to diagnose what was wrong, where exactly, and how badly—and do it in seconds. That kind of precision wasn’t the gift of intuition. It was the domain of the obsessively trained, the pathologically educated—and those words were nothing if not ones that perfectly described Kurt Ozhorn.
Yes, Ozhorn was all of that. Perhaps frighteningly so.
Normally, people have emotions. Emotions affect judgment. Normally, people get exhausted. Exhaustion also affects judgment. Normally, people have nerves. Nerves also… You get the idea.
But whether it was a dying infant or a high-ranking noble, no matter how horrific the injury, Kurt Ozhorn healed without flinching. Without emotion.
When he went about his work, what was reflected in those jet-black eyes, as dark as night, was not a living person. It was something more akin to a bag of flesh and blood. A broken system that needed fixing, and he was the one to fix it.
Halin had never seen him smile or say so much as one word that wasn’t strictly necessary. From his lofty perch, Ozhorn watched—without judgment, without wavering, simply healing.
So when Ozhorn responded to his greeting with nothing but a confused tilt of the head, Halin wasn’t hurt—he’d expected it. Of course, he wouldn’t remember his face. Why would he? When he was just background noise?
“We worked together for three years at the central infirmary. Patrick Halin, rank six healer,” he said with a bit of a sad smile.
“Ah, you,” Ozhorn said simply. “Glad to have another dependable soul here.”
He didn’t even notice the effect his words had. As Halin gaped in disbelief, he was already focused on the task at hand, calmly slotting vials of mana potions into the belt beneath his coat.
“When did you arrive?” he asked.
“Day before yesterday, sir.”
“What’s the current situation?”
“We’re waiting. So is it.”
“How’s morale?”
“Poor. But improving rapidly.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because Ozhorn the Silent is here, of course.”
No one could quite recall who first gave him the nickname, but it had remained in circulation long enough that no one questioned its accuracy. It suited him—this man who performed healing without incantation, without even the courtesy of a murmur.
Among the kingdom’s third-rank healers, he was the only one who wouldn’t be considered geriatric. Advancement in the healing ranks required not just mastery but a long track record of proven accomplishments, which made Ozhorn—still in his twenties—something of an anomaly. A useful one. Whenever a distant and hazardous mission required a healer of high rank, his name invariably rose to the top. He accepted every assignment without protest and returned from each without commentary. As such, the system and the people behind it saw no reason for change.
Someone had once asked him whether he ever felt fear at the front.
“Not really. It’s all the same to me,” he’d said, his face unreadable.
In fact, it’d been an expression similar to the one he wore now as he secured the last of his potions and turned to Halin. “I just spoke with the leader of the combat team. The man with the large axe,” he said.
“Ah,” Halin nodded. “Gustaf Hagg. The Greataxe. He’s had it rough. By the book sort, unusually loyal for an adventurer. The crown tends to reward that with more work.”
“Is he strong?” Ozhorn asked.
“Strong’s not the word. Skilled, maybe? Careful? He doesn’t throw lives away. When he’s in charge, people usually come back.”
Ozhorn gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “Then I’m certainly glad to have him.”
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the young prodigy—Sir Kurt Ozhorn.”
The voice came from behind, deep and theatrical, impossible to ignore no matter how much one might wish to.
Halin resisted the urge to sigh as he turned.
Bacchus Ehmann. Fourth-rank healer.
Halin hadn’t known him before this mission. Two days had been enough. There was something about the man that simply…rubbed him the wrong way. As if he didn’t belong here… No, as if he wanted to be anywhere but here.
For example, when an earth-affinity mage had kindly offered to shape them a temporary shelter—a full earthen structure, complete with roof and walls—Halin had watched in awe. It wasn’t every day a healer got to witness that kind of magic firsthand. Ehmann, on the other hand, stood off to the side with a handkerchief pressed dramatically to his nose, coughing and sneezing as if the very idea of dirt personally offended him.
At dinner, despite being served far better fare than the adventurers, he chewed with audible disgust, grimacing, occasionally gagging, as if every bite betrayed him. The same attitude carried over to everything he did: bathing, sleeping, walking through camp. Everything was performed with the air of someone being forced to endure the unendurable. Always turning his nose up, always making a show of being too good for what was fine for everyone else. Halin found him insufferable.
At least he wasn’t any louder about his disgust than that, Halin thought, counting his lucky stars. The past two days had been miserable with only Ehmann for company, so having another healer around—even if it was Ozhorn—was a genuine relief.
“I just can’t wait to get out of here,” Ehmann muttered. “This place is no place for a man like me. I was just on my way to speak with the combat leader—see if we can’t push for a faster, more aggressive approach.”
“I’ve just come from coordinating strategy with him,” Ozhorn replied, voice calm and even. “As you should know, I’m the assigned healing leader for this mission; I’ll be handling all communication to avoid confusion on the field.”
Ehmann stiffened. “And as you should know, I’ve been a healer far longer than you have.”
“I fail to see how that’s relevant,” Ozhorn said without missing a beat. “The crown appointed me leader. Seniority has no bearing. As far as this mission is concerned, you will follow my command, fourth-rank healer—Sir Bacchus Ehmann.”
It was perhaps the most direct anyone had ever spoken to Ehmann. He went silent immediately. After all, it was hard to argue with the rank etched into the brooches on their chests.
“Yes. As you command, Sir Kurt Ozhorn, third-rank healer.”
He kicked up a small cloud of dust as he walked past, then sat down with what seemed like deliberate volume, just shy of a tantrum.
Ozhorn didn’t even blink.