A frosty drizzle pattered against the clinic’s leaded-glass windows as the third hour of morning struck.
Inside the surgical ward, the cold dampness vanished beneath the stifling heat of roaring iron braziers and boiling copper cauldrons. The air hung heavy with steam, stinging vinegar, and the sharp tang of freshly cut flesh.
Elara stood braced over an elevated wooden operating slab, entirely absorbed in her task. She wore a high-collared tunic of coarse bleached flax, tied tightly at the waist with a braided linen cord to keep the fabric away from the surgical field. Over her chest hung a dark, oil-treated hide bib, slick with crimson droplets and antiseptic water. Her dark hair was wound into a severe knot behind her head, held fast with twin iron bodkins, leaving her sharp profile cl
