The Healer They Deposed Holds Blackpine's Last Breath

"Are you... the one coming to take charge of us all?" the old healer rasped.

I dropped my leather box onto the nearest wooden table. The heavy thud made two apprentices jump.

"I am," I said. "Who is your most critical?"

The old man blinked, wiping a bloody hand on his stained apron. "The vanguard captain. Third cot on the left. But he is already gone, my lady. The rot reached his femoral artery."

I didn't wait for him to finish. I crossed the dirt floor, ignoring the stares of fifty injured soldiers.

The captain lay motionless, his skin the color of wet ash. A massive gash tore through his thigh, leaking dark, foul-smelling blood onto the canvas cot.

"He needs an amputation," the old healer argued, hurrying behind me. "We are just waiting for the bone saw to be sterilized."

"If you cut off his leg now, the shock will stop his heart," I stated, unbuckling my box. "Bring me yarrow root, raw honey, and silk thread. Now."

The old man hesitated, looking from me to the dying soldier. "My lady, I have served this tent for ten years. You cannot stitch dead flesh."

"Do it," Oren commanded from the doorway.

Apprentices scrambled. I pulled the Hartley journal from my box, flipping to the blood-binding salve. I didn't need to read the recipe. I just needed them to see the book.

I pressed my bare palms directly over the captain's open artery.

"You will infect him further!" an apprentice gasped, dropping a tin basin.

"Quiet," I snapped.

I closed my eyes and pushed. The familiar hum of my energy flowed down my arms, bypassing the dirt and the rot, knitting the torn vessels together beneath the skin. My hands grew searing hot.

Under my palms, the sluggish, dark blood shifted to a bright, healthy red. The bleeding slowed, then stopped completely.

I lifted my hands.

The old healer dropped a bundle of yarrow. It hit the dirt with a soft thud.

"His color," the old man whispered, staring at the captain's chest, which now rose and fell in a steady rhythm. "The rot... it stopped spreading."

"Clean the surface," I instructed the gaping apprentices, wiping my bloody hands on a clean linen towel. "Stitch the muscle. He keeps his leg."

Total silence swallowed the massive tent. Dozens of seasoned combat medics stared at me.

Oren stepped into the center of the room. He drew a rolled parchment from his belt, breaking the royal wax seal with his thumb.

"By decree of the High King," Oren projected, his voice bouncing off the canvas walls. "Wren Hartley is hereby appointed Head Healer of the Northern Royal Court."

The old healer immediately dropped to one knee. The apprentices followed. Within seconds, every able-bodied medic in the tent knelt in the dirt.

"Her authority supersedes all military commanders within these walls," Oren continued, his eyes locking onto mine. "Her rank is absolute. She stands equal to any pack Alpha in the Northern territories. Her word is law."

Equal to an Alpha.

Cregan had spent twenty years reminding me I was a subordinate. A nursemaid. A convenience meant to stay in the shadows while he took the glory of the battlefield.

Oren signaled a guard near the entrance. The soldier stepped forward, carrying a large object draped in dark velvet.

He pulled the cloth away.

A massive, black iron medicine box rested on his forearms. The Royal crest was forged into the lid. It was flawless, heavy, and undeniable.

"Your seal of office, Chief Healer," Oren said, stepping aside.

I ran my fingers over the cold iron. Three days ago, my fifteen-year-old son had ripped a rusted copper pin from my chest and handed it to a woman in silver armor. He told me I was nothing but bandages.

This iron box carried more weight than Blackpine's entire council.

"Set it on my table," I told the guard.

I turned back to the captain, checking his pulse one last time. Strong. Steady.

"Magister Oren," a voice called out.

A border sentry ducked into the tent, his armor covered in fresh snow. He saluted quickly, his eyes darting toward the kneeling medics.

"Report," Oren ordered.

"We have a situation at the outer gates," the sentry said, glancing nervously at me. "A messenger from the Blackpine pack arrived at midnight. We denied him entry, but he refuses to leave."

My fingers paused on the captain's wrist.

"Blackpine?" Oren frowned. "What does he want?"

"He is begging for an audience with the Chief Healer," the sentry replied. "He says his pack is bleeding out. He asked for a remedy."

"Send him away," I said, my voice completely flat. "Blackpine has a Luna in silver armor. Let her stitch them."

"My lady," the sentry hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "The old man is half-frozen. He knelt in the snow all night. He says he won't leave until he returns something that belongs to you."

I dropped the towel onto the metal tray.

"Bring him inside," I commanded.

The sentry bowed and hurried out. The tent remained dead quiet. The kneeling medics watched me, waiting for their new commander's next move.

Heavy, dragging footsteps approached the entrance.

The thick crimson canvas flap was pushed aside.

Bryn collapsed onto his knees just inside the threshold. His wooden military cane clattered across the dirt floor, rolling to a stop near my boots. His lips were split and bleeding from the frost, his gray hair matted with ice.

He didn't look at Oren. He didn't look at the royal guards.

Bryn lifted his trembling head and locked eyes with me.

"Wren," he croaked, his voice barely a whisper.

He raised his frostbitten hands above his head, palms open.

Resting on his cracked skin was the tarnished, rusted copper Luna pin.