Isabella Dunsmoor woke with a start, ripped from her slumber by a frantic scream. It was horrible timing - whatever sleep she’d managed so far had barely rested her, and her eyes were just as heavy now as when she’d finally crawled into her bedding. She hadn’t been able to process what she’d heard, having been half asleep, but her confusion was short lived: another shout came, even louder than before, accompanied with rapid footfalls that squelched through mud and splashed through puddles of rain.

  “We’re under attack!”

  She’d heard it clearly, this time, but there was still a definite delay in her processing of the words. A few moments later, after another more distant shout, she finally understood. Her face paled at the realisation.

  Sister Isabella bolted out of her bedding, and threw on whatever was closest - there was no time to waste. Within moments, she was out of the tent; any weariness had been scared out of her, or washed away by the barrage of rain. If she remembered correctly, procedure would dictate that she must liaise with an officer, commandeer a tent that was in the best location, and tend to the wounded.

  It seemed that the reality of the situation was far different than she expected: she was hardly more than ten steps from her tent before a wounded man was thrust upon her, and the soldier that had been carrying them rushed back into the fray before she could protest.

  She stumbled as the wounded man fell onto her, and she heaved him back to standing fully upright with all her inconsiderable might. He was a stocky man, weighed down even further by clothes that were soaked through with rain and stained red with blood. She guided him as best she could to her tent, weaving between unknown soldiers that ran past them toward the battle front, and laid him upon her bedding.

  Isabella performed a quick assessment of the man’s condition, tearing at sopping wet fabric to get a better look at various covered areas, as he mumbled to her incoherently. His speech was slurred, and his pupils were dilated - reason enough to suspect head trauma, if the pooling blood beneath his head was not sufficient evidence alone. She hurried to hold a hand over the wound, and felt her Blessing take hold.

  A familiar tightness wrapped itself around her insides, and she grew cold; the usage of her Blessing brought her some joy as she grew closer to the Seraph, but it was an uncomfortable experience nevertheless. By now she had lost count of how many times she had used the Blessing over the years - past a certain point, it mattered little. She had long since come to terms with the price she paid for her service, and for the future she was facing. She had convinced herself that she wasn’t suited to motherhood anyway, so what difference did it make?

  Hardly a minute or two passed before two more men burst into Isabella’s tent. She was terrified at the sudden arrival, worried that it may be the enemy, and recoiled in defence; she was no longer healing the man on her bedding.

  To her relief the men were her allies, but both were injured: the bald soldier had a shallow slash across his face, and the younger boy had lost an entire hand. He carried it with him, cradled in the hand that remained. It was a sight that she was unfortunately familiar with: there was a common misconception, in the realm, that lost limbs could be reattached if one simply reached a healer in time. It never got any easier to convince them of the truth.

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  “He’s losing a lot of blood - you’ve got to help, Sister!” the bald man pleaded, as the younger boy slumped at the side of the tent, face a sickly white.

  True enough, it was all but pouring from the amputation site - if she didn’t act now, he’d lose his life along with the hand. Unfortunately, that meant withholding healing from the man who lay on her bedding. She hurried over to the young boy, and immediately began pouring as much willpower as she could into the wound, forcing it to stitch itself closed.

  The young boy spoke in a mumble as his eyes drifted down to her actions, “Hey,” he began, confused, “Hey, what are you doing?” He began to panic. His voice rose as he spoke again, now realising that there was no reattachment taking place, “I’ve- I’ve got it here, look!” The bald man accompanying him moved over to restrain him, as the young boy began trying waving the disembodied hand around in desperation. He screamed, “Put it back! Put it back, I’m begging you! Why aren’t you listening to me?”

  Sister Isabella did her best to ignore him, as much as it pained her to do so, and focused on her work.

  After some time - she wasn’t sure how much - the young boy had calmed himself. He sobbed quietly, shaking every once in a while, but otherwise stayed quiet. He stared off into the distance with a vacant and somewhat despondent look, as though he were looking far past the walls of the tent and through its fabric. The bleeding eventually stopped, and with it her healing - the boy was no longer at risk of death, and she needed to conserve her energy for other patients that would surely find their way to her that night.

  “Can you sort me out, now?” the bald man said, and Sister Isabella noted a hint of impatience in his voice.

  She moved over to him, and inspected his injury. Whatever blade had inflicted this had not bitten deep, but still appeared to have damaged his eye beyond function. Other than that, the wounds were superficial. “You are at no risk of complications, and I must conserve my Blessing for those who are in dire need of it.” She would gladly have healed him, in normal circumstances, but right then it would have been a foolish course of action - it was only a matter of time before someone two breaths from death was laid before her, and she could not risk being unable to help them. She had already wasted precious energy earlier that day.

  “If you can just get the eye working I can be back out there helping - I saw how quick you patched him up,” he gestured to the young boy on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, I must continue my treatment on the man who arrived before you - it’s critical that I aid him now,“ Sister Isabella replied remorsefully. It tormented her to withhold aid, but she knew it was the right decision in the moment.

  “Look, think of it this way,” the man said, clearly exasperated, “if I go back out killing, less people will end up here. I don’t even need much!”

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that-“ Sister Isabella was interrupted as the man on her bedding began to seize. He shook violently where he lay, and produced a vile pink foam from his mouth as he did so. In only a few moments, he was gone.

  Sister Isabella felt hollow. She could have saved him, had she not been distracted.

  The bald man clapped his hands together. “Great, now you can heal me!” Silence lingered after his words, and Isabella grew frightened - she had dealt with men as callous as this, and it never ended well. “Come on then!” He gestured to himself expectantly, angrily, as though this were the obvious thing to do, and a man had not just died only a few feet from him.

  “No,” Sister Isabella replied, wiping away her tears, “I must conserve my Blessing. If you wish to rejoin the battle, you must do so in your current state.” She braced herself for what she knew would come, as it always did.

  The bald man moved closer, looming over Isabella, and clenched his fists. “You bitch! Some fucking healer you are!”

  Three more soldiers, in various states of impairment, stepped into the tent. Thankfully, logic seemed to get the better of the bald man, and he did not strike nor press her further. He scowled, spat on the floor to his side, and stormed out of the tent as one of the three men began to speak.

  “You’ve got to help, Sister!”