Discordant Note | TBATE

Chapter 155: To Heal a City

Toren Daen

I adjusted the mask on my face, making sure it was flush with my skin and covering my mouth. I breathed in, the scent of blood, sweat, and grime wafting through the air.

I trudged through the healer's camps, nodding in respect to the clinicians who saw me. I reached a hand out to help a man–with no mana emanating from him–who stumbled over a protruding bit of rubble. I steadied him as he nearly tumbled, the heavy bag of supplies in his hands unwieldy. When he saw my eyes, he swallowed nervously. "For Fiachra," the young man said in acknowledgment.

"For Fiachra," I intoned back.

The man walked off, more confidence in his step as he did so. Aurora's clockwork songbird alighted on my shoulder, the talons nearly digging into my protective gear. "This medical camp has improved in spirit," she said lightly. "It is... fascinating to observe."

I exhaled through my nose, turning to walk again. A large bucket of bloody rags hovered near my head under my telekinetic control. The announcement today has lifted many spirits, I thought back. It's no wonder people feel more purpose in their strides.

It had been nearly half a week since my speech to the people of Fiachra. Since then, I'd immersed myself fully in the wounded camps, utilizing my gifts to the best of my abilities to heal and help survivors along.

The number of wounded mages was off the charts. I was on call for the deadliest of injuries, and I'd born witness to the horrid effects of blithe a hundred times over. The way the toxin spread throughout a person's mana channels was a grotesque thing to witness, and despite my best efforts, mages who were infected with the poison would never be able to use their magic again.

I'd lost more than one patient as I attempted to pull them back from the brink.

The slog of dead and dying set the entire camps into a grim, dark mood. Every lost person we failed to save drew morale into a deeper pit, one that seemed we'd never claw ourselves out from.

But just this morning, I'd received word from Scythe Seris that the city of Fiachra was likely to be cleared for greater travel. The blithe plague had been confirmed to no longer bear viral properties, and that meant more supplies. More healers. More support.

Despite the hundreds of unadorned assisting the camps, we were still understaffed and undersupplied. With the help of others portalling in from around Alacrya, everyone looked forward to relief from the pressure.

I walked toward the main command tent, depositing the bucket of bloody rags near a dozen others. Teams of men and women would periodically collect those, washing and cleaning what they could while discarding the rest.

I pushed through the tent, doing a cursory inspection. Aurora's puppet hummed with a melodic tune as I entered, drawing the eyes of the many men and women inside.

Trelza, the tall, bald surgeon, turned to look at me with eyes of stone. As the lead medical professional of the East Fiachra Healer's Guild, he'd quickly been put in charge of the patients wounded by blithe. As East Fiachra regularly had to treat those suffering from blithe symptoms, the Guild inadvertently became the greatest source of knowledge and surety in this trying tragedy.

"Daen," the man said curtly. "You have another assignment."

As we'd worked together in the wake of the Plaguefire Incursion, Trelza's anger at the breaking of my oaths had quickly dissipated. In the face of pragmatic need and helping those less fortunate, the iron-eyed surgeon had pushed his personal reservations aside.

I nodded. "What is their situation?" I asked. Most of the time, I was tasked with using my heartfire healing to painfully flush a mage's mana channels and veins of remaining blithe. It was something I was uniquely suited for, and I had long since grown adept at the action.