If there’s one thing Dorothea has learned about war, it’s this: every man dies the same, no matter what side he’s on. It’s a morbid lesson for a woman so averse to violence—but it reminds her of what’s important, that everyone fighting is human, and that she laments their sacrifices equally.

The Kingdom army’s infirmary is hardly different from one she might see in an Imperial camp. Injured soldiers, medical supplies, the acrid scent of antiseptic barely masking the unpleasant smell of blood. Even on a quieter day the clerics are kept busy, changing dressings and applying poultices, those gifted in faith magic attending to those most in need of a swift recovery. And Dorothea? Dorothea is hidden away in the far corner, taking inventory under the watchful eye of a particularly fervent priest, who no doubt revels in ensuring a defected heathen doesn’t try anything funny.

She can hardly blame the Faerghans for being cautious. They can’t risk a former enemy casting curses instead of healing spells, or contaminating their precious supply of medicine. And she prefers these menial tasks to fighting—or she thought she did, but the work has gotten repetitive. Maybe it’s time she request a transfer—

“You can’t be serious, Miss Martritz.”

Dorothea snaps out of her boredom-induced trance, turning to find her supervisor leveling Mercedes—one of the only people in camp who even speaks to her—with a skeptical scowl.

“It’s no mistake, Leanne,” Mercedes says in that sweet, even voice of hers. “He requested her by name.”

Leanne digs her heels in. “Did he receive a blow to the head out there, perchance?”

“If it helps,” Mercedes starts, unperturbed, “I’ll be watching her the entire time.” She turns to Dorothea with a smile, making a beckoning motion with her hand. “Your faith magic isn’t too rusty, is it?”

It probably is, but Dorothea would prefer not to admit that. “Nowhere near as effective as yours,” she says as she rises to her feet, smoothing out her skirts. “But I can manage.”

“Good. Sylvain will be in good hands.”

Dorothea almost hesitates. She figured it had to be someone she knew, even if just barely, but Sylvain? A memory flashes through her head: a pleasant spring day in Garreg Mach’s marketplace, a calculated smile and a grating pick-up line. She’s heard whispers around camp that the notorious skirt-chaser is no more—and considering the brief interactions she’s had with him consisted of terse greetings and uneasy glances, she’s inclined to believe them. What was the man thinking, insisting on her of all people?

But she follows Mercedes without question, her desire to help outweighing her confusion. A couple of the clerics regard her with curiosity as they weave through the rows of cots, their eyes burning into her back even as she sits down next to the patient in question.

“You actually got her,” Sylvain pants, and Dorothea assesses the damage: a nasty-looking scrape and bruising along his cheek, a field of burn blisters running up his left arm and chest, the skin red and peeling in places.

“Mage?” she asks, making note of what’s available to her: a basin of water, stacks of clean washcloths, antibacterial ointment.

“House fire,” he says with a wince. “Bandits were looting a nearby village.”

She takes a sharp inhale, air hissing through her teeth. “Bastards.” Arguably worse than a skirmish against imperial soldiers, who at least have the integrity to not go after civilians. She rolls up her sleeves, hands hovering by his shoulder. There’s a brief moment of nerves as light flickers to her fingertips, like a spark struggling to catch, and she worries that her faith magic has sat unused for too long. But it glows to life and brings with it warm relief, steadying her own heartbeat as she hones in on Sylvain’s.

“Thanks for the help,” he says, eyes fluttering closed.

“Of course.” She wants to ask why he wanted her help specifically, but it’s enough work staying focused. Her spell is weaker than she’d like it to be, the skin repairing itself at an aggravatingly slow pace. Is it because, deep down, her heart is conflicted over healing someone who could go on to kill the people she cares about? She tries to calm her conscience, reminding herself why she pushed herself to master faith magic in spite of the challenge it posed.

“Mercedes was right,” Sylvain says after a while. “You have a knack for this.”

“Pardon?” Her concentration slips for a moment. “Mercedes talked about me?” To him? “I’m sure I’m nothing special,” she adds before he can answer. “Ask any cleric here, and they’d get the job done just as well.” Probably better than her, a girl who learned how to do this less than two years ago and doesn’t even believe in the Goddess.

He has the nerve to smile, even laugh a little. “Whatever you say. I thought a former opera diva would be able to take a compliment better.”

Dorothea bites her lip. It’s not that she can’t; she’s just gotten used to people giving her the cold shoulder. Sylvain having something nice to say about her… It makes her warm and fuzzy, but it also feels like a trap. She decides it’s not worth the trouble to respond, and he seems to take the hint. By the time she’s done treating him, their brief conversation is all but vanished from her mind.

It’s not until the next morning that she’s reminded of the odd exchange, waylaid by him while she’s busy hanging laundry up to dry.

“Hey, Dorothea,” he says, already looking much improved.

“Sylvain,” she replies, glancing around; this is a quieter section of camp, very few others in sight. “Did someone send you to keep an eye on me?”

“Nothing so official. Just passing through.”

She narrows her eyes. “Passing through? To where?”

Surprise waves over his face before melting back into an easy smile. “I like to patrol camp this time of day. Take stock of what’s going on.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, skeptical. “Well, there’s nothing much going on with me, so—” She pauses, curiosity hitting her. “Actually, could I ask you something?”

He grins, and Dorothea suspects he already knows exactly what her question is. “Shoot.”

No sense belaboring the point. “Why did you ask for my help yesterday?”

Sylvain takes a deep breath. “Like I said—Mercedes told me you have a knack for it. She also mentioned that everyone in the infirmary was nervous about being tended to by a former imperial soldier.” He pinches the back of his neck, shyer than he seemed when he arrived. “I thought that maybe, if they saw a general like me get treatment and not kick the bucket, it might help them trust you more.”

There it is again—that warm and fuzzy feeling, all the more notable for how absent it’s otherwise been. But she remains cautious. “You would take that risk? What if I’d actually…”

“You wouldn’t have,” he shoots back, looking embarrassed. “I was fairly sure, anyway. And when you healed me…”

“What about it?”

He lets out a curious hum, then clears his throat. “I read something interesting in a book on faith magic once. It said that healing is an honest type of spell. It tells you who someone is—whether you can trust them or not.”

She resists rolling her eyes. “And my magic made you believe you could trust me?” It sounds like a ploy to get her guard down. And yet… Sylvain is rarely sincere, in her experience, but something about how he’s looking at her pierces through her cynicism. “How did you even decide that?”

He shrugs. “It was warm, and not just in the physical sense. Like you were humming a love—um, a lullaby in my ear.”

Dorothea smirks, if only to mask her embarrassment. “You sure the pain and adrenaline didn’t just make you delirious?”

“Look,” he says, throwing his hands up. “You don’t have to believe me. But I am still alive, and I’m sure that didn’t go unnoticed.” His gaze wanders, back towards the busier end of camp. “I’ll let you get back to it. I just wanted you to know that I’m around to you help, if anyone else gives you more trouble.”

He leaves, off before she can get another word in or point out that he lied about patrolling. Gone, but the warm and fuzzy feeling he gave her stays.

Dammit.