1.
With that, I took a step to the side. The soldier’s gaze darted between Uno and me, his eyes wide with terror.
As I reached for the needle, he recoiled, stammering, “W-why, why are you doing this…?” Uno let out a low chuckle and pinned the man’s head and shoulder down with a thick, calloused forearm.
“Ugh, Master Uno.”
“Stay still. You’re a grown man, stop acting like such a coward.”
I glanced at Uno with a flicker of satisfaction. He was built like a whale shark—massive, imposing, and inherently menacing—yet he possessed a surprisingly gentle temperament.
“Master Uno, Master Uno! Aack, my shoulder’s going to break!”
Well, perhaps “gentle” was a generous term for that particular method, but the point remained.
Exactly three minutes later, Uno’s jaw dropped.
“How is this possible…?”
He blinked in a daze, as if witnessing a miracle. Not even three minutes to close human skin; it would have been fast for simple fabric, let alone flesh.
Uno understood better than anyone that human skin was not a pliable medium. He spent his days handling the realities of the body; he knew the friction and the resistance. Such dexterity was not the result of a few meager attempts. Uno studied me closely, his gaze sharp and calculating.
I was not, at the very least, the type to posture like Sir Miguel Flich. I was someone who had practiced hundreds, thousands of times until the needle and thread had become a seamless extension of my own nerves.
I was someone who proved their worth through competence.
Without realizing it, Uno leaned in, reaching a hand toward the needle I held.
“It looks different from the needles we know…”
*Slap.*
Reflexively, I struck the back of his hand. He stopped mid-sentence, and an uncomfortable silence settled between us.
Mia rolled her round eyes, looking between us, while the soldier with the stitched cheek stared at the floor as if searching for a lost coin.
I clenched my fist tightly to hide my trembling fingers. My bare hands, stripped of their gloves to perform the suture, stood out starkly white against my dark apron.
“…….”
A wave of self-loathing crashed over me. Why was I so defensive about things others found trivial?
I knew the answer, but time could not be reversed. What was done was done.
I opened my mouth, feigning composure.
“As you know, human skin is tougher than you think. That is why we require a sharper needle than those used for cloth. Unlike a standard needle, this one has a triangular cross-section.”
Uno stared at me for a long time, his brow furrowed. He had initially assumed I was looking down on him—a common condescension from those in the medical profession toward a mere barber.
It wasn’t the first time he’d faced such arrogance, nor would it be the last, but that didn’t make the sting any less sharp. Yet, I had answered his question as if nothing had happened.
What on earth was I thinking?
“I use very thin silk thread. It is to minimize scarring.”
My expressionless face betrayed nothing of my inner turmoil. My answers were sincere; I had not spoken with the contempt of Sir Miguel Flich, nor had I humiliated him before the soldiers by questioning his knowledge.
“The forceps in my left hand are for gripping the skin. They are more effective when sharp; a blunt edge requires more force to anchor the tissue, which only creates a larger, more jagged scar.”
I had never heard of a physician who used honorifics for a barber.
*Glance.*
Uno eyed my clenched fist. Feeling his gaze, I turned away and plunged both hands into a bucket, scrubbing them vigorously with a sponge.
After drying my hands on a clean cloth, I pulled on a pair of white gloves from inside my apron, the movement practiced and natural. Even then, Uno’s gaze remained fixed on me. He finally broke his long silence.
“Here.”
He pointed to the sutured skin. My eyes followed the tip of his finger.
“The stitched area is slightly raised. If it were me, I would have sutured it flatter than that.”
“As time passes, the tissue will settle. If it were sutured perfectly flat, a depressed scar would form in its place.”
Stunned by a technicality he hadn’t considered, Uno slowly nodded. He asked another question.
“When do you remove the thread?”
“It depends on the speed of recovery.”
I paused, glancing at the soldier. He was restless, trying to gauge the mood, but he was young and healthy.
“Between a week and ten days.”
I hid my dejection behind a nonchalant expression, casting a secret look at the stitches I had just placed. I felt I had used too much force. It felt alien compared to stitching corpses. Living skin radiated warmth and writhed under the needle, teasing my fingertips in a way that made my skin crawl.
I could have done better.
Just as I let out a silent sigh, Uno muttered to himself.
“If there were someone to cut the knots from the side, it would reduce unnecessary movement and further shorten the time.”
I nodded, though I knew I could never do that. To assist me, someone would have to stand close, and I couldn’t endure such proximity.
I wasn’t normal. It struck me that it had been a long time since I’d held that thought—a thought that used to plague me every single day at the Royal Medical College.
My head tilted, and suddenly, a soldier burst into the tent, breathless and triumphant.
“His Highness has returned! With the head of the Alvar commander!”
The soldiers erupted into a low cheer. Even the lightly wounded joined in the jubilation. Only Uno let out a sigh, his expression bitter.
“It seems we’ll be getting busy without a moment to catch our breath.”
He turned to the men. “Move the bodies elsewhere. We won the battle, but we didn’t escape without casualties. We need to make room for the wounded.”
“Yes, sir!”
The tent turned into a flurry of motion. I gathered my things and stepped outside; since Diego had returned, it was time for me to do my work.
* * *
Diego returned to the boisterous news of victory. He carried himself with the heavy, terrible grace of a god of war, and the soldiers following him let out sharp cries, still intoxicated by the thrill of the slaughter.
Joy, exhilaration, and pride.
The Divoa soldiers, whose morale had hit rock bottom after the ambush, marched back into camp with heads held high. Victory was sweet, but never had it tasted as intoxicating as it did today.
“Those Alvar bastards, at least half of them must be dead by now!”
“Seeing them tuck their tails and scramble in retreat…”
“When His Grace the Grand Duke took the head of the Alvar commander—hee, it was so satisfying, I could die. I’ll never forget that sight.”
I walked toward Diego’s tent through the throngs of buzzing soldiers. Diego, who was brushing dust from his hair, stopped when he spotted me.
“…….”
His gaze landed on my impassive face. It lasted only a fleeting second, but it felt like an eternity. He stared at me intently, as if seeing me for the first time.
I furrowed my brow. Following my gaze, Diego said, “Ah,” and wiped his cheek.
“It’s not my blood.”
I nodded as if I had already known. Only then did a familiar, faint smile return to his eyes.
He turned and strode into his tent, and I followed, with Mia scrambling behind me, bucket in hand.
“Please sit.”
I gestured to a chair. Diego, who had been about to change, lifted one eyebrow.
“I repeat, it is not my blood. There is nothing for Physician Rios to worry about.”
I did not back down. Watching him with eyes that betrayed none of my inner thoughts, I spoke after a long silence.
“I am your attending physician. I have a duty to verify your condition. That is why I am here.”
Diego stared at me, seemingly amused. As always, I did not avoid his gaze. It was a strange dynamic—my attitude was so unlike that of any other young lady.
“Besides, Your Grace is intoxicated by the feeling of victory. You may not be feeling the pain. There could be small wounds you are unaware of.”
Intoxicated by victory, he thought.
Perhaps she was right. He was in a good mood for once.
Diego let out a light laugh and held his hands up in surrender, then plopped down onto the chair.
“If the attending physician says I must, then I must. Isn’t that right?”
I did not answer. I took the damp cloth from Mia and walked toward him. Holding it, I reached out.
To be honest, I could not understand him. Given his illness, even a small wound could prove fatal.
And yet, war?
If it were me, I wouldn’t step a foot outside the house, let alone march to the front lines. I would do everything in my power to squeeze one more day of life out of my existence.
But Diego was different. Even knowing his time was limited, he stood on the perilous front lines, always at the vanguard. Perhaps there were burdens carried by the powerful that I could never comprehend.
Shaking off the thought, I focused on my fingertips. Diego watched me with a glint of amusement.
My gloved hands were like armor. Protective gear to guard me against the world. All of it contained within that thin, thin layer of fabric.
Just as Diego was inwardly sneering, the damp cloth touched his cheek. The scrap of fabric, settling so lightly it was as if it hadn’t touched him at all, hovered over his skin.