43.
Irene Rios was little more than a diversion—a way to make Diego’s tedious life feel sharper, more vibrant. She was an anomaly, an unpredictable force that caught him off guard and forced genuine laughter from his lips.
Yet, for the first time, a sharp, unfamiliar curiosity pricked at him. Why did she fear touch so desperately? Why did she shrink from people with such visceral intensity?
And why, despite it all, did she cling to her survival with such lonely, ferocious tenacity?
It would have taken only a single word. If she had just turned to him and asked for help, Diego would have torn the world apart for her. He would have forced Sir Miguel Flich, who detested surgeons, to cut the thread, or made Uno—with hands as wide as cauldron lids—delicately wield the scissors.
But Irene never turned. She kept her back to him, and Diego kept his gaze locked on the familiar, rigid line of her shoulders.
“If anything, it’s only slightly better than cauterizing it with a branding iron. Let’s see just how much…”
Miguel, who had been craning his neck with a sneer, fell silent. He stared at the stitches Irene had made for a long, heavy moment.
Even if he was a physician who looked down upon surgery, he was still a graduate of the Royal Medical College of Divoa. He possessed at least a modicum of discernment.
The mark, which in the past would have been seared by a barber’s iron, was neatly sutured. But that wasn’t what shocked him.
He knew that suturing skin with needle and thread was the latest surgical technique; he had even observed it firsthand. But those prior attempts had been crude, clumsy handiwork—no better than a barber’s clumsy hack.
Recalling that, Miguel frowned. Then, he looked at the skin Irene had sutured once more.
It was incomparably more precise than anything he had witnessed before. Even as his mind insisted that such refinement was impossible, he could not deny the reality before his eyes.
Once the scar faded, no one would notice the stitches at all, unless they looked with a magnifying glass.
As if intending for Miguel to hear, Uno spoke in his gravelly voice.
“It cannot be compared to a branding iron. Until now, searing a wound was the best treatment we had. If it festered, we risked amputation. Or worse—a man might simply die. Since a burn scar is a thousand times better than death, we used the iron.”
Pausing, Uno cast a glance toward Irene. His tone was steeped in genuine reverence.
“But from now on, the landscape might change. No one will ever be as fast or as precise as Physician Rios, but I would like to learn if it is possible. For the sake of the dying soldiers.”
“Hmph.”
Miguel let out a disgruntled sound and glared at Irene.
“…….”
Even under the weight of Uno’s praise, Irene’s expression did not waver. She opened her bag and retrieved a small, sharp pair of scissors.
Just then, Mia brought over a basin of water and a cloth.
“Here you go, Physician Rios.”
Transferring a bit of clean water into a bowl, Irene removed her gloves at an agonizingly slow pace. Then, as if trying to shield her hands from the onlookers’ sight, she quickly submerged them.
Splash.
Her long, pale fingers washed in the water.
Diego’s gaze didn’t leave them. The transparent water flowed down the back of her hand like a snake, eventually soaking her sleeves.
“…….”
Her ten fingers entwined and then unlaced. As they brushed against the skin of her own hand, Diego narrowed his eyes, his pitch-black pupils sinking into a murky, restless depth.
Lately, there was nothing more intoxicating than Irene’s fingers. She still couldn’t bring herself to touch his hand, yet just watching those fingers move was a pleasure that bordered on ecstasy.
“You rascals, that is the hand that saved you.”
Suddenly, Uno turned to the soldiers, puffed out his chest, and struck a smug pose as if he were the one who had performed the miracle.
“Wow, that hand…!”
“You saved us with such delicate hands that would struggle to hold a fork. Thank you, Physician Rios!”
Diego watched them with a look of mounting displeasure. His mood, previously relaxed, had soured. He remained silent, trying to parse the reason why, but his thoughts were cut short.
Irene, having finished washing, had turned back to the soldier.
Carrying the scissors, she approached him and looked down in silence. The soldier stared up at her, wide-eyed and breathless.
As the silence grew stifling, Diego interjected, his voice cool and clipped.
“It would be better to lie down, soldier.”
“Yes? Oh, yes. Your Grace, Grand Duke Cassis!”
Irene turned to look at Diego. Perhaps he truly possessed the ability to wander through her mind, just as Mia did.
As their eyes locked, Diego smiled softly. Irene, having looked away from the “smooth potato,” knelt on one knee and stared intently at the scissors in her hand.
*I can do it. I already stitched it; there is no way I cannot cut it.*
The room was held in a collective, heavy silence, but Irene didn’t notice the audience. She only saw her own fingertips.
What truly made her pulse quicken wasn’t the gaze of the onlookers, but the soldier’s warm breath, his radiating heat, his glistening eyes, and the rhythmic, steady thrum of a heartbeat.
The proof that he was alive.
Clenching and unclenching her fist, Irene slowly reached out.
“Ph-Physician Rios?”
The soldier’s voice trembled with fear. The tips of the scissors approaching his skin were shaking violently.
“What? Surely you aren’t whining because you’re scared of just this much, Physician Rios?”
Seeing his chance, Miguel sneered.
Irene inhaled sharply and pulled the scissors back. Uno, remembering the steady, expressionless grace with which she had stitched the flesh, looked at her in confusion. “Physician Rios?”
To anyone else, the suturing was the feat, and the cutting was the triviality. Yet, she who had been a master at mending flesh was now trembling at the task of a simple snip.
Irene hid her dejection behind a mask of indifference. She pulled her gloves back on.
By now, everyone must have realized. Irene was not ordinary.
The aftermath was clear as day. The rumors would grow like a winter snowball; people would whisper, avoid her, and add more cruel nicknames to her collection.
*It’s fine.*
Irene gripped the scissors again. The leather muffled her tactile sense, but it would be enough.
At that moment, cutting through the thick, uncomfortable silence, a low voice drifted to her.
“Physician Rios is from Therapia, so she feels the cold easily. You might not know this, but the average temperature there is at least ten degrees higher than in Norte.”
“Ah, I see.”
The soldier nodded, seemingly understanding perfectly. Irene paused and looked back at Diego. He smiled warmly as their eyes met—a look so soft he seemed more like a sweet potato than the formidable, starchy “potato” she had labeled him.
The trembling vanished as if it had never been. It was just a thin layer of cloth, yet it felt as reassuring as a set of impenetrable armor.
Irene skillfully removed the stitches one by one. It was finished in an instant—a piece of work so flawless that even Miguel was left with nothing to say.
Irene took a step back, her voice detached.
“The scar will fade over time, but it will not disappear completely.”
“No, Physician! It is far better than living with a monstrously large burn scar!”
“What? Are you saying I am ignorant?”
Uno, who had been inspecting the wound with pride, bristled. As the soldier retreated, he chuckled cheekily. “When did I say you were ignorant, Physician Uno? I meant the scar, the burn scar.”
He turned to Irene and bowed deeply.
“I am sincere. I do not know how to express my gratitude.”
A pause.
Irene slowly tilted her head. He was not a corpse. Corpses did not offer thanks, nor did they look at her with such fervent, living eyes.
“…….”
Diego could not tear his gaze away from her—or more precisely, from her gloved hands.
*Interesting,* he thought.
Irene moved on to the next soldier. Miguel muttered to himself, “Hmph. If one is a graduate of the Royal Medical College, that level of skill is to be expected.”
Uno smirked, retorting instantly.
“Is Physician Flich not a graduate of the Royal Medical College as well? Does that mean you can do this too, Physician?”
“Well, of course!”
Uno laughed craftily and bowed his head.
“Then I look forward to your help in the future. Please stop by the medical tent often.”
“Are you telling me to do the lowly work of a barber?”
While the two bickered, Irene’s hands never slowed. In a blink, she packed her tools and stepped back with her bag.
The soldier, still touching the long scar on his abdomen, bowed until his forehead nearly grazed the floor.
“Thank you so very much, Physician Rios. If it weren’t for you, I would already be dead. I didn’t have the confidence to endure the agony of the branding iron. If there is ever anything you need, call me at any time. I will come running, setting aside any task.”
“…….”
Irene, about to turn, paused. She was unaccustomed to such weight. She didn’t know what to say or how to arrange her features.
She had merely sutured skin, yet they praised her as if she had reached into the afterlife and pulled them back.
“……Then.”
Unable to answer, Irene simply walked out of the room.
“Did we perhaps make some mistake?”
At her clinical, distant attitude, the soldiers scratched their heads and looked to Uno. Uno crossed his brawny arms and nodded.
“You did.”
“What? We’re just simple men; we don’t know etiquette.”
“Your faces are the mistake. She ran away because she was terrified at the sight of those mugs.”
“Isn’t that the same for you, Physician Uno?”
“What? You rascals!”
Diego let out a short, quiet laugh as he watched them chatter. He rose slowly from his seat and followed her out into the hall.