"Hold him down!" one of the healers barked, sweat dripping from his brow as he gripped the boy's shattered leg. Another healer raised a small, curved blade, his magic flowing like a cool mist into the boy's thigh to numb the pain.
Caelan stepped forward."Wait."
The blade froze mid-air. Both healers turned sharply, irritation flashing in their eyes.
"If you amputate now," Caelan said, voice steady despite the tremor in his gut, "he loses more than a leg. He loses his dream. And you don't need to cut it off."
The senior healer narrowed his eyes. "And what do you suggest we do instead? Let him bleed to death? This is the only way to save his life. I've done this for decades."
Caelan clenched his jaw. "Move away."
"You're not even trained in our methods. This is madness."
Caelan stepped forward, lowering his voice, but not the weight behind it. "By the name of Lord Armath Dorne, my father, I order you to step back."
A tense silence blanketed the room. The healers hesitated, glancing at one another. They had no proof of his claim, but the fear of disobeying a Dorne was real. Slowly, reluctantly, they backed away.
Please... back off. I need to save him.
The boy's breaths were shallow and rapid. His leg was a mess—splintered bone piercing muscle and skin like thorns from a cruel vine.
The senior healer scoffed. "Will you let him suffer and die from pain, then?"
"No," Caelan said softly. "I'll treat him. I know a way. But I'll need your help."
The healer studied him, doubtful. "You'll take responsibility if it fails?"
"I will."
There was murmuring in the background. Some whispered in disapproval, others in concern. But finally, the senior healer gave a curt nod. "We will assist."
"First, I need a sharp blade," Caelan said.
A younger healer stepped forward and handed him a clean surgical knife.
"Boil water. I need to clean the skin."Towels were handed over. Caelan soaked one in the hot water, then carefully wiped around the wound with practiced care. The scent of blood filled the room, sharp and metallic.
He looked up at the senior healer. "Can you keep him numb?"
"I'll suppress the pain using healing magic."
"Good."
Caelan then leaned close to the boy's face and whispered, "Sleep." A soft glow pulsed from his hand to the boy's forehead. The boy's expression eased, his limbs relaxing.
Then Caelan cut.
The skin parted smoothly beneath his blade. One healer held the edges open as Caelan worked swiftly, removing fractured bone shards embedded in the muscle. His hands moved with the confidence of a man who had done this countless times before.
He avoided the main arteries, worked around ligaments, and peeled away splinters with delicate precision. Blood pooled around his fingers, but Caelan never wavered. This wasn't foreign. This was familiar. This was Elias Cross—the surgeon—at work again.
At last, he cleared the final shard and paused. His heart pounded.
I need a rod. Something strong, light… flexible. Biocompatible.
His fingers trembled.
"What is it?" the senior healer asked.
"The bone won't stay aligned. I need to stabilize it with a rod."
"You're a mage, aren't you? Use a mana stone. Shape it."
Caelan blinked. Mana stone… right.
A rough, uncut shard was placed into his palm. It lacked refinement, but it would have to do.
Caelan closed his eyes, drew a breath, and focused.
Mana surged through his fingertips as he molded the shard into a slender rod—flexible, light, and smooth. Once shaped, he carefully inserted it into the hollow of the bone, threading it through the medullary canal. No screws. Instead, he weaved a thread of reinforced mana around it, binding it from within.
Then, with silent focus, he sewed the layers shut—fascia, subcutaneous tissue, skin. Every stitch was exact. Every motion was calculated.
The room was silent. Breathless.
The senior healer exhaled slowly. "Your precision… your mana control… even the way you closed the wound…"
A younger healer whispered, "This isn't healing. It's like black magic."
The senior turned sharply. "Quiet. How dare you say that about the heir of House Dorne?"
The boy bowed low. "Apologies."
Caelan stood, his hands trembling, blood soaking the edges of his sleeves. "I didn't do anything special. I just removed the fragments to relieve pressure. Stabilized the structure. The rest… that's up to his body now."
He turned to the senior healer. "Check his vitals daily—temperature, swelling, pain level. I'll leave a diet plan. He's to eat nothing but what's written."
They nodded, but none spoke. Everyone stared at him as though he were something rare. Unfamiliar.
By morning, the story had spread throughout the Dorne estate.
By the end of the week, it had spread across the surrounding territory—the forgotten heir who saved a boy from amputation with strange, foreign methods no healer had ever seen.
For the next month, Caelan trained every day. His stamina grew, and he began learning the basics of swordsmanship. He'd reached the second tier of sword mastery, but next to his younger brother, it still felt like crawling while the other sprinted through the skies.
And Luken? He healed faster than anyone expected.
When the boy finally stood again, unassisted, tears shimmered in his eyes.
"I… I don't know how to thank you," he whispered. "I thought I'd never walk again."
Caelan gave a faint smile. "You'll do more than walk. You'll run.". . .
He placed a hand on Luken's leg and closed his eyes. With a single thought, the mana rod dissolved, absorbed back into Caelan's palm. The bone held firm.
"The rod's out. Now…" His tone darkened. "Tell me. How did this happen?"
Luken stiffened. "It… it was during training. A few older squires—Riken, Jaro, and Tannis—they let a horse loose. It stepped on me. I don't think it was an accident."
Caelan didn't speak.
He simply stared at the floor, the names echoing in his head like blades drawn in a quiet room.
Riken. Jaro. Tannis.
He whispered them like a prayer, not of mercy—but of memory.
There are many ways to wield a scalpel.
Some heal.
Some cut.
And some… deliver justice.