The cryptic runes shimmered into existence, a stark contrast against the dim, blood-soaked air of the Grey Haven’s improvised infirmary. Thane paused, his hands still hovering over the crude surgical implements, the metallic tang of blood a constant companion. "One Merit Point can be exchanged for five Free Attribute Points." "Ten Merit Points can be exchanged for one Skill Point that can enhance any skill." A flicker of something akin to grim satisfaction, or perhaps just cold understanding, touched Thane's worn features. The ledger, then. A silent accounting for the lives he salvaged from the maw of death. The sprawling misery around him, the ceaseless groans and the stench of decay – each might now bear a price. A means to an end, a currency for survival. The weariness in his bones, a constant ache, lightened fractionally under the weight of this new revelation. Master Torvin, his brow furrowed with a lifetime of witnessing suffering, leaned closer to the soldier Thane had just treated. The coarse, newly applied stitches held the torn flesh together with an almost unnatural neatness. The gash, a ragged maw moments ago, was now a pale, closed line. The sanguine seep had all but ceased, the applied herbal poultice seeming to cling more effectively to the taut skin. Torvin’s gaze, usually weary, sharpened with a flicker of awe. "Stitchcraft, when done correctly, can staunch the flow," Thane's voice was low, almost monotone, cutting through the din. He wiped his hands on a stained cloth, the coppery scent clinging to his fingers. "But if the Blight has taken root deep within, or vital organs are compromised… the spirits alone decide." He spoke of fate with the detached acceptance of one who had seen too much of it. Torvin straightened, his gaze lingering on the closed wound. "Regardless of your… unconventional methods of Purification by Flame," he began, a tremor in his voice, "this Stitchcraft alone holds immeasurable worth." He looked at Thane, a young man barely a decade older than some of the injured boys, yet carrying an ancient weight. "My own mentor, Arch-Chirurgeon Eldrin, revered across Veridia as the foremost Master Healer of his age, possessed no such technique. Young Warden, are you truly but a common soldier? Where did your kin learn such profound arts? Was your mother perhaps a hidden disciple of some reclusive luminary?" "My mother," Thane murmured, the word tasting of ash and memory, "had her own ways. But a luminary, no. These are merely… fragments of forgotten knowledge I stumbled upon." He offered no further explanation, the lie a comfortable shield. *Forgotten, yes. By this realm, perhaps. But not by the echoes within me.* He knew the technique wasn't truly complex, merely precise. In a world where basic hygiene was a foreign concept, a clean stitch was revolutionary. Here, in the shattered fragments of Veridia, where survival was a daily gamble against the Blight, anything that tipped the scales was sacred. "I sense it, young Thane," Torvin breathed, a hand unconsciously reaching for the healed wound. "With this Stitchcraft, once word spreads beyond these blood-soaked walls, you could very well lay the foundation for a new age of healing. You could become a Master Healer in your own right." Thane met the older man's gaze, the urgency in his own eyes betraying his outward calm. The cries of the wounded were a relentless chorus. "Master Torvin, we cannot afford sentiment now. Lives bleed out even as we speak." He swept his arm towards the rows of makeshift pallets. "Come. I will show you the movements of Stitchcraft, and the critical junctures of Purification by Flame." Torvin's eyes widened. "You would… truly impart this Stitchcraft? This is a secret art, a life-saving technique guarded with fervor by any clan of healers." The notion of sharing such potent knowledge, beyond the strictures of guild and lineage, was alien in Veridia. Thane's gaze drifted over the broken forms, the pale faces, the raw, exposed wounds. "My purpose here is not to hoard secrets for coin or prestige, Master Torvin. This method… it can save scores of our fellow Wardens. If I teach it to you, and you, in turn, teach your acolytes, we can stem this tide of death tonight." He moved towards another soldier, his movements fluid, efficient. "Perhaps, when the Blight finally recedes from Veridia, this knowledge can benefit all its shattered peoples." The words, though pragmatic, held a faint resonance of something noble, a flicker of the humanity he often suppressed. A profound reverence settled upon Master Torvin's features. To offer such a potent, life-saving art, not for personal gain but for the common good… it was an act of virtue he hadn't witnessed in decades. *This*, he thought, *is the true heart of a healer, the benevolence Arch-Chirurgeon Eldrin spoke of in hushed tones.* He wasted no more time, moving swiftly to Thane's side, his usual authority subsumed by an eager humility. The most skilled Chirurgeon in the Veridian Wardens' ranks now positioned himself like an apprentice. "When Scouring a blade," Thane began, his voice a low hum against the rising groans, "it must be superheated, until the metal glows like a dying ember, then plunged into strong spirit-liquor. The liquor, beyond dulling pain, sears away the unseen Blight-motes within the wound itself." He demonstrated with a smaller blade, the hiss and steam a familiar punctuation to his words. "As for Stitchcraft, it is the careful weaving of tissue and skin, guided by specific patterns, to bind what has been torn asunder." His fingers moved with practiced grace, a stark contrast to the crudity of the tools. Master Torvin absorbed every word, his eyes fixed on Thane's hands, his mind racing to grasp the intricacies. This extraordinary sight did not escape the other lesser Chirurgeons scattered throughout the infirmary. Murmurs rippled through the shadowed corners. "Is that… Master Torvin? Learning from a common Warden?" "It cannot be. Yet, he attends to the soldier's every word." "Our Master's lineage traces back to the Arch-Chirurgeon himself! How could a mere recruit teach him anything?" A mixture of disbelief and curiosity painted their faces. Fear of Master Torvin's usual stern demeanor kept their voices low, but their gazes remained glued to the peculiar tableau. After what felt like an eternity, the heavy flap of the infirmary's entrance tent billowed open, admitting a gust of cold, damp air. Commander Lyra, her coiled hair pulled back tight, her armored uniform smudged with recent battle grime, strode in, her aura one of controlled fury. Several grim-faced aides trailed behind her. "Who oversees this infirmary?" Her voice, though not a shout, carried the weight of command, cutting through the general cacophony. Ward-Captain Kael, a thin, stooped man usually assigned to logistics, rushed forward, bowing deeply. "This subordinate greets Commander Lyra." "Report, Ward-Captain. What is the current state of the wounded?" Lyra's eyes swept across the grim scene. "Reporting, Commander," Kael replied, his voice strained. "Master Torvin, leading fifty Chirurgeons, labors tirelessly. Many of our Wardens have been stabilized, thanks to his efforts." "As long as Master Torvin himself is present, that much is good." Lyra nodded, her gaze still searching. "Do you know of a Warden… Thane?" "Thane?" Kael echoed, a peculiar expression crossing his face. "Yes, Commander, I do." "Where is he?" Lyra pressed, her impatience growing. "He… he is instructing Master Torvin in healing techniques," Kael stammered, his bewilderment still evident. He turned, pointing towards the deeper, more crowded sections of the infirmary where the gravest cases lay. Lyra followed his finger. There, amidst the suffering, she saw him. A man, his upper torso swathed in crude bandages, fresh bloodstains on his tunic and cheek – clearly a recent casualty himself. Yet, he was not resting. He wielded a small, glinting blade, skillfully extracting a barbed arrow from a groaning soldier's shoulder. And beside him, like a diligent student, stood Master Torvin, the preeminent Chirurgeon of the Veridian Wardens, acting as his assistant – handing him tools, dabbing away blood, offering fresh bandages. "What… by the Void, what is happening here?" Lyra demanded, utterly baffled, turning back to Kael. "You may not credit it, Commander," Kael said, a wry smile finally touching his lips, "but this Thane… he possesses an extraordinary medical acumen, one that even Master Torvin reveres. It is a method that vastly improves a Warden's chances of life, and he is, at this moment, imparting it to our Master Healer." "He is skilled in healing? And can instruct Master Torvin?" Lyra's voice was a whisper of astonishment, an incredulous sound in the reeking air. Thane, oblivious to the high-ranking scrutiny, his mind solely focused on the intricate dance of life and death before him, continued his work – suturing, extracting, dressing wounds with a methodical rhythm. A familiar shimmer. "For treating one person, you have gained 1 Merit Point." A wave of quiet relief washed over Thane. The chime, the brief flash of the cryptic runes – it was the signal. This life, at least, had been pulled back from the precipice. If no such alert manifested, it meant the spirit had already flown, the injuries too grievous even for his borrowed knowledge. In the short, frantic hours since his awakening, he had touched many, saved some, failed others. The ledger of life and death, now meticulously tallied. "So, as you explained, young brother Thane," Master Torvin said, his voice brimming with a scholar's avidity, "the 'Secondary Blight-Ailment' – the fever that consumes men days after a wound – it isn't the wound itself, but unseen Blight-motes, festering energies, perhaps even the rust from a blade, entering the blood. Even a fresh weapon, you say, can carry the poison of this 'fever,' these 'putrid humors.' Scouring the blade with fire eradicates the poison, and dousing it in strong spirit-liquor kills it as well." "Precisely," Thane confirmed, his tone unyielding in its conviction. "With proper Purification by Flame and the precise application of Stitchcraft, a wounded Warden's odds of survival can increase by at least thirty to forty percent." "To hear your theories, young brother Thane, is to glimpse a new dawn," Master Torvin said, a profound admiration in his eyes. "Theories, yes, Master Torvin," Thane replied, his gaze already shifting to the next patient, "but they are nothing without practice, without the hands of skilled Chirurgeons such as yourself. Why not attempt the Stitchcraft yourself this time? I will open the wound, and you may bind it." A hearty, almost joyous laugh, a rare sound in the gloom of the infirmary, escaped Master Torvin. "Very well! Then today, I shall join forces with young brother Thane to wrest our men from the clutches of the Blight!"

The Ledger of Life