POV: Ravenna
The first wounded arrive three days after forces engage.
I'm in the palace courtyard overseeing setup of the healing station when I hear them. Horses. Wagons. Groaning. SCREAMING.
So much screaming.
"They're here!" Someone shouts. "Casualties incoming!"
I run to the gates. And STOP.
Because there are SO MANY. Dozens of soldiers on wagons. Some walking supported by others. Some CARRIED because they can't walk. Blood everywhere. Burns. Cuts. Broken bones. The SMELL of injury and fear and death approaching.
"Get them organized!" I snap. Falling into commander-mode because someone HAS to take charge. "Critical injuries to the front! Walking wounded to the side! Someone get me WATER!"
Chaos organizes. Barely. People moving. Following orders. Getting wounded sorted while I stand there trying not to PANIC because this is so much worse than I imagined.
Lyris appears beside me. The young healer from the village. "Where do you want me?"
"Critical injuries. Anything life-threatening." I point to the worst cases. "I'll handle those too. The village healers can take minor wounds."
"Understood."
Master Orin arrives. Ancient but steady. "Put me on triage. I can assess faster than healing."
"Do it."
We fall into rhythm. Organized chaos. Orin assessing wounds. Directing critical cases to me and Lyris. Minor wounds to other healers. Hopeless cases—gods, there are HOPELESS cases—sent to Lysander who can at least make them comfortable as they die.
I take the first soldier. Burns covering half his body. Water kingdom attack—boiling water thrown like weapon. He's SCREAMING. Agony written in every line of his face.
"You're okay," I lie. Place my hands on his chest. "You're going to be okay."
I reach for my gift. Pour healing into burns. Force damaged tissue to regenerate. Ease pain. Restore—
His FEAR hits me like a physical blow.
Not just pain. TERROR. The memory of water boiling around him. Of skin melting. Of thinking he would die. All of it crashes into me through the healing connection and I almost DROP it because it's so INTENSE so VISCERAL so—
"Breathe," Lyris says sharply beside me. She's healing her own patient but watching. "Don't absorb it. Feel it and let it GO."
Right. Boundaries. Like she taught me in the village. Feel the pain without TAKING the pain.
I adjust. Create distance. Keep healing but don't let his terror become mine.
The burns fade. Skin regenerates. He stops screaming. Starts crying instead. Relief and disbelief and gratitude all mixed together.
"Thank you," he gasps. "Thank you, Princess, I thought—"
"You're okay now." I'm already moving to the next patient. "Rest. Drink water. You'll recover."
The next patient. And the next. And the NEXT.
A woman with shattered leg. Bone splintered from dragon tail strike. I knit it together piece by piece while she bites down on leather to keep from screaming.
A man with deep sword cuts across his chest. Nearly hit his heart. I seal vessels. Repair muscle. Save his life by MINUTES.
Another with water in his lungs from partial drowning. I expel it. Force his lungs to remember how to breathe AIR instead of WATER.
Hours pass. I lose count of how many I heal. The courtyard is organized chaos. Healers moving between patients. Soldiers crying. Some DYING despite our best efforts.
I heal a young man—maybe nineteen—with burns similar to the first patient. While I work, he talks. Babbles really. About the battle. About water kingdom warriors using magic to create steam that BOILED people alive. About dragons fighting overhead. About his friend who died beside him.
I heal his body. But his MIND—his mind is full of trauma I can't touch. Can't FIX. Can only witness as it pours into me through the healing connection.
By patient thirty, I'm starting to shake. Not from exhaustion. From the WEIGHT of all their fear and pain and trauma accumulating in my head.
By patient forty, I'm crying while I heal. Can't help it. Their emotions are bleeding into mine and I can't keep the boundaries perfect. Can't NOT feel what they're feeling.
By patient fifty, Lyris physically pulls me away.
"You need to stop," she says firmly. "You're at your limit."
"There are more—"
"And there are OTHER healers. You've done enough. More than enough." She steers me toward a bench. "Sit. Eat. Breathe. Let the village healers handle the rest."
I sit because my legs won't hold me anymore. Someone puts food in my hands. Water. I consume both mechanically. Tasting nothing. Feeling nothing except the ECHO of fifty soldiers' fear and pain rattling around in my skull.
"First time healing battle wounds?" Orin asks quietly. He's sitting beside me. Also taking a break.
"Yes."
"It's different from healing illness."
"No shit." My voice is rough. "Illness is just—physical. Body malfunctioning. But battle wounds carry the VIOLENCE. The trauma. The—" I can't finish.
"The knowing that someone tried to kill them," Orin finishes gently. "Yes. That's embedded in the injury. You can't heal flesh without touching the psychic weight of HOW it was wounded." He pauses. "It gets easier. You learn to create better boundaries. But it never stops being hard."
"How did you DO this for forty years?"
"By remembering that saving them matters more than my discomfort." He looks at the courtyard. At soldiers being treated. Some saved. Some lost. "And by taking breaks when I need them instead of pushing until I break."
I nod. Swallow past the lump in my throat. "How many did we lose?"
"Seven. Out of sixty-three wounded." His voice is heavy. "Seven we couldn't save. But fifty-six who will live because we were here. Because you SPECIFICALLY were here with power none of the rest of us have."
Fifty-six. I saved fifty-six lives today.
Seven died.
I don't know whether to feel proud or devastated.
Both. I feel both.
***
That evening, I collapse in my chambers. Morgana finds me on the floor. Just SITTING there. Unable to move. Unable to think. Just—EMPTY.
"Rav?" She kneels beside me. "Are you hurt?"
"No. Just—" I gesture vaguely. "Tired. So tired."
"How many did you heal?"
"I don't know. Fifty? Maybe more. I lost count." I look at her. "They're all inside my head now. Their fear. Their pain. Their memories of dying. It's—" My voice breaks. "It's so LOUD, Morgana. So loud and I can't make it STOP."
She pulls me into her arms. Holds me while I shake. While I cry. While I fall apart from carrying weight I didn't know existed.
"This is my war now," I whisper eventually. "Not fighting. Saving. Healing everyone who comes back bleeding."
"You saved fifty-six people today," Morgana says fiercely. "Fifty-six who will live. Who will see their families again. Who will have futures because of you."
"Seven died."
"Seven were already dying. You didn't fail them. You just—couldn't save everyone." She pulls back to look at me. "No one can save everyone, Rav. Not even you."
"Mother would have—"
"Your mother was human. Gifted but human. With limits." Morgana's voice is firm. "You did more than anyone could expect. You saved more than anyone else could. That has to be enough."
Does it? I don't know. I don't know if it's enough. If I'M enough.
But it's all I have.
So I force myself up. Force myself to eat what Morgana brings. Force myself to rest because tomorrow—tomorrow there will be more wounded. More soldiers broken by war. More lives to save or lose.
This is my war now. And I'll fight it the only way I know how. By refusing to let death win. One soldier at a time.