“Oh…”

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Excuse me?”

“There was such a commotion this morning.”

The man’s eyes scanned Swan from head to toe, as if searching for any injuries. Feeling uncomfortable under his gaze, she instinctively hunched her shoulders and stared back at him. His own shoulder, which had looked bad the day before, was now in even worse shape. The loosely tied bandages were stained dark brown with dried blood, and the partially exposed wound showed signs of severe infection, evidence of inadequate treatment.

“Ah, no… I’m fine.”

“That’s a relief. It’s good you weren’t hurt.”

He gave her a bright, unguarded smile, as carefree as a boy running through the streets. He raised a hand to scratch his head, out of habit, and winced in pain as he lifted his arm, clutching his injured shoulder with a pained expression. 

“You shouldn’t do that!” 

Swan instinctively grabbed his hand and shook her head hard. The man looked at her in surprise. 

“You can’t do that. If you touch it, the wound will get worse – more infected.”

“Infected?”

“The bandages are dirty and the wound is already badly torn.”

Her serious tone stopped him in his tracks. He turned to look at her, his expression filled with uncertainty and fear. His boyish features, already youthful, made him look even younger now, like a child caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

Fighting the urge to smile, Swan gently pulled his hand away. 

“What about the medic?”

“Ah, well… after all the chaos earlier, a lot of the men got sick, so… my comrades just went to get more apothecaries from the village.”

The man raised his hand again to scratch his head, but Swan instinctively caught his arm and stopped him. She looked at him intently, noting how his flushed cheeks and stifled moans of obvious pain made him seem not only meek, but almost endearingly clumsy. 

After lowering her gaze for a moment, Swan noticed him sneaking glances at her. Finally, she spoke. 

“You seem to be in a lot of pain. Let me help you by changing your bandages.” 

“R-Really? Are you a healer?” 

He looked up at her, startled, clearly mistaking her for a medic travelling with the army. Swan shook her head. 

“No, I’m not. I only know a little about treating wounds. My mother was skilled with herbs and taught me when I was younger.” 

“Wow, that’s incredible.”

His eyes widen in awe. His look, filled with admiration, made it clear that he truly thought she was remarkable. 

Feigning nonchalance, Swan turned her head slightly to hide the small smile that tugged at her lips. 

She had never thought of herself as a pharmacist, let alone a healer. Those were titles she felt unworthy of. In Solerium, the practice of medicine without the approval of the Church was strictly forbidden. Both apothecaries and healers needed official sanction to practice their craft.

In Solerium, physicians were considered noble and virtuous, ranking just below the clergy and nobility. For someone like her – a mere woman, the descendant of runaway slaves who hadn’t been granted manumission, and an illegitimate child disguised as a commoner – such a title seemed unattainable.

‘Slave. And Mirabella…’

“Ugh… Haah…” 

The man grimaced as the pain in his wound flared and he instinctively reached for her. Lost in thoughts of her daughter, Swan snapped back to reality and quickly stopped him, looking around the tent for something to help. 

***

After asking the man for directions, Swan arrived at a tent full of injured soldiers. There weren’t enough casualties to require several tents, but the single space was far too cramped to treat them all properly.

To make matters worse, there were only two medics present – probably licensed healers or their apprentices. Either way, they were clearly overwhelmed, with little time or resources to attend to each soldier individually. 

In the middle of their conversation, the man suddenly complained of fever and dizziness. Alarmed, Swan helped him into the tent. His fever seemed to blur his vision and he stumbled repeatedly, moaning in pain. As his condition worsened, he collapsed on the floor, pale and weak, uttering soft moans of discomfort. 

Panicking, Swan turned to call the medic inside the tent, but he was already attending to a patient with a serious abdominal wound. The medic was sweating, deeply focused on treating the injury, and Swan was reluctant to disturb him. 

With no other options, she quickly scanned the tent and grabbed a bottle of medicine from a nearby shelf. The emergency was serious, and the lack of personnel only made things worse. Fortunately, Swan had some knowledge she could rely on. 

She knelt down beside the man, opened the bottle and dipped a piece of cotton into it. The pungent, familiar smell of alcohol reached her nose. 

She carefully removed the man’s armour, a process she had done before, and began to disinfect the wound with the alcohol-soaked cotton. The wound was badly infected, the flesh torn and left untreated for too long. It was clear that the delay had exacerbated the damage. The sight of the ragged, inflamed wound made Swan bite her lip as she looked down at him. 

The man’s body was shaking, his skin cold to the touch and his breathing shallow and uneven. Judging by the erratic rise and fall of his chest, his pulse was probably irregular as well. 

As she wiped the area around the wound, Swan looked up and caught the medic’s eye. 

“Could you get me a sterile needle and some ointment?” 

The medic, who Swan expected to react with confusion, just stared at her blankly. Just as she started to lower her head, realising she wasn’t going to get any help, one of the soldiers assisting the medic handed her a bag of medical supplies. Swan accepted it gratefully, giving him a small smile in return. 

Late in the afternoon, as the man had mentioned, more healers, apothecaries and their apprentices arrived from the nearby village. Swan was so engrossed in treating the endless stream of patients that she almost forgot about Mirabella. Without hesitation, she examined the wounds of unfamiliar men, pulling clothing from their stomachs, thighs and calves to clean and treat their wounds. 

Whenever the work became overwhelming and she paused to sigh and wipe away the cold sweat, a pair of hands would suddenly appear and help her without a word. 

Although these helpers were strangers, and the only communication between them was about caring for the patients, Swan felt an unexpected sense of camaraderie with them. 

As dusk fell, the man, feverish and struggling to breathe, finally opened his eyes. Though his gaze flickered, as if he were about to slip back into unconsciousness, his breathing was much steadier than before, which eased Swan’s worries somewhat. 

“I’m sorry… for letting you see me like this.”

“No, it’s all right. Don’t worry about it. Do you feel more awake now?” 

“Yes… I think so.”

The man replied in a hoarse, barely audible voice. Swan let out a soft sigh, her lips curving into a faint smile. Seeing her expression, the man smiled back and spoke hesitantly. 

“If I had a mother, I think she would look a lot like you.” 

Swan looked at him in silence, and he misinterpreted her long look. His expression faltered, turned slightly shy, and he whispered apologetically. 

“Sorry… I shouldn’t have said that.” 

“It’s all right.”

“I don’t have a mother, so I said what I said…” 

He was interrupted by a cough, his frail body shaking with the effort. Swan quickly helped him to his feet and offered him water, holding the mug to his lips before gently laying him down again. Seeing someone so sick and longing for a mother stirred a deep sense of compassion in her. 

“No one in this world is truly without a mother.”

The man, his cough subsiding, looked up at her with curious eyes. Swan, her cheeks slightly flushed, continued. 

“So please don’t say you don’t have a mother. It’s possible that her spirit was watching over you, protecting your life. Maybe that’s why I seemed like a mother to you.” 

Swan’s voice trembled slightly as she spoke. She didn’t feel like she had become this man’s mother, but his words stirred something deep inside her, an inexplicable warmth. She understood what he meant. 

Growing up without parents often came with the weight of judgement and cold stares. Perhaps this man, like her, had faced loneliness and isolation for much of his life. 

“Thank you.”

He whispered slowly, his lips barely moving. 

Swan smiled softly at him, placing her hand gently on his forehead before using her other hand to check her own temperature. 

“Countess Cattleya.” 

The unfamiliar title caught her ear. Assuming it wasn’t directed at her, Swan didn’t turn around. The mixture of patients’ moans and sharp exchanges between apprentices made it hard to hear clearly anyway. 

But when the name was called again, the tent suddenly fell silent, save for the faint groans of the injured. 

As Swan continued to examine the man’s forehead, she noticed that every healer and apothecary in the tent had risen, their eyes fixed on a single point. 

“Countess Cattleya.” 

The voice was overly formal, its tone stiff and monotonous, carrying an odd air of detachment. It was a voice Swan recognised, one to which she had grown somewhat accustomed. When she realised how unnaturally quiet the previously chaotic tent had become, the silence was almost eerie. 

“Swan.” 

Her hand, which had reached out to touch the man’s forehead, froze in mid-air. Swan looked up, startled, at the figure grasping her wrist. Her mouth fell open in surprise as she stared at him, her mind flashing to the memory of Atlion following her silently earlier. Even then, he hadn’t made a sound – not even the faint crunch of grass underfoot. 

“How… how did you get here…?” 

Swan’s green eyes trembled, her gaze unsteady. He didn’t answer, didn’t tell her to get up. Instead, he stood there, looking down at her with a heavy, unreadable expression. 

She hesitated, her lips twitching as if to say something, before glancing at the unconscious man lying on the cot. Then she left the tent without another word. 

“How… how did you get here…?” 

Still no answer. Even Raoul, who had addressed her as “Countess Cattleya”, remained silent. Swan looked at Atlion’s back, silhouetted against the dying twilight, and followed him in silence. 

He led her to his tent. Swan followed, lowering her gaze as he paused and finally spoke. 

“Change your clothes and come out.” 

“What?”