The Surgeon of Blackwood

The cold, rough stone floor pressed against Anya's cheek. The mixed scent of mold and a faint trace of blood stung her nostrils. A splitting headache. A flood of memories, not her own—memories filled with jealousy, foolishness, and a pathetic, groveling love—replayed in her mind like a corrupted surgical video. Guard A nudged Anya's leg with the tip of his boot. "Get up, you useless Duchess! The Duke is here to see you one last time. It's time to go." Anya's eyes shot open. This wasn't right. Wasn't she just in the operating room, performing a heart bypass after a 36-hour shift? How did she end up here? She struggled to sit up, taking in her surroundings. Stone walls, iron bars, flickering torches casting menacing shadows on the walls. She looked down at her own body, at the torn and mud-stained, once-magnificent gown. This wasn't her body. A voice, cold as frost and devoid of any emotion, came from the dungeon's entrance. "Don't bother. Proceed with the execution." A tall man, whose powerful presence seemed to freeze the very air, appeared at the dungeon's entrance. He was dressed in impeccably tailored black riding gear, his boots stained with dirt. An aura of ruthless coldness emanated from him. He was the king of this land, the Duke of Blackwood, Kaelen. His gaze fell upon Anya, not as one looks at a wife, but at a disgusting piece of trash about to be disposed of. Anya rapidly processed the chaotic memories in her head, forcing herself to be calm, her voice hoarse but clear. "Wait! I did not poison 'Storm'!" 'Storm', Kaelen's most beloved warhorse, a symbol of the duchy, and the reason the original Anya was sentenced to death—accused of poisoning its feed out of jealousy. Old Veterinarian Marco, following behind Kaelen, shook his head in exhaustion. "Your Grace, Storm is foaming at the mouth, convulsing, his belly swollen like a balloon. All antidotes have failed. I am useless... This is the work of the most potent poison." Kaelen didn't even bother to look at Anya again, commanding the guards. "Drag her away." Guard A and B immediately moved forward, roughly grabbing Anya's slender arms. Anya shouted with all her might, struggling. "It's not poison! It's an acute intestinal torsion! His intestines are twisted! If you delay any longer, he will die from ischemic necrosis! I can save him!" Anya's words plunged the dungeon into a moment of silence, followed by the guards' stifled snickers. A useless Duchess who couldn't even take care of herself, claiming she could save the Duke's warhorse? She probably couldn't even tell a horse from a donkey! Kaelen finally turned around, as if hearing the most absurd joke in the world, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "You? Save him? With your foolish jealousy, or perhaps your pathetic tears?" At this moment, she was no longer the meek Earl's daughter, but the chief surgeon who held absolute authority in the operating room. She met his icy gaze, her eyes possessing a calmness, professionalism, and even an unchallengeable authority he had never seen before. "With my hands, and my knowledge. Give me fifteen minutes. If I can't save him, I will end my own life on the spot, you won't have to lift a finger. If I save him, I want you to retract the death sentence." Her aura was so powerful that Kaelen, for the first time, truly, seriously, studied the woman before him. It was the same familiar, despised face, but those eyes... they were no longer timid and obsessed, but shone with the sharp, cool light of a scalpel. In the stables, the massive warhorse, Storm, lay on the ground, whining in agony. Watched and ridiculed by everyone, Anya methodically gave orders. "Bring me a basin of the strongest liquor! And the sharpest small knife you have, heat it in the fire until it glows red, then cool it with the liquor! Quickly!" To them, this was unheard of, insane "witchcraft." Kaelen didn't stop her. He stood with his arms crossed, watching coldly, wanting to see what other tricks this woman could pull. Anya repeatedly washed her hands and the knife with the liquor. Then, on the horse's massively bloated abdomen, she found a precise spot. As everyone gasped in horror, she plunged the knife in without hesitation, with absolute precision. A hissing sound as gas is expelled. Storm's huge belly begins to shrink at a visible rate. "By the gods!" Old Marco exclaimed. Anya didn't stop. She reached her hand into the horse's abdomen, relying on a surgeon's muscle memory and precise sense of touch, and began to perform an external reduction. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but her focus was absolute. Minutes later, under the stunned gazes of everyone present, the agonized whining of the warhorse gradually ceased. It struggled, and with Anya's soothing words, miraculously, it managed to stand up! It was weak, but it was alive! A dead silence fell upon the stables. A c***k appeared on Kaelen's statuesque face for the first time. The cold disgust in his eyes was replaced by an intense, unrestrainable shock and bewilderment. He strode forward, ignoring the weak warhorse, and seized Anya's chin, forcing her to look up at him. His voice was low, filled with dangerous scrutiny. "Tell me. Who are you?"