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# Healers

Story
The woman’s screams had stopped. The healer leaned over her, hands buried to the wrist in blood. His face was calm, almost tender, eyes half-closed in concentration.
The wound beneath his fingers closed, flesh knitting like soft wax. The smell of iron filled the room, thick and warm. He exhaled, trembling slightly. A dark stain spread across his own side, the same wound mirrored on his skin.
He whispered the words to draw it out, to trade pain for strength, but the pain lingered anyway. It always did.
The woman stirred and opened her eyes, breathing again. He smiled faintly, wiping the sweat from her brow. When she looked away, he licked her blood from his fingers.

A healer at work

Story
The healer’s chamber was lit only by candles, the kind that burned slow and dripped clear. Their scent was sharp, lavender and iron, clean enough to cover the smell of sweat that clung to the woman’s skin.
She sat on the edge of the table, her bodice half undone, legs crossed neatly, posture practiced. Her eyes were lined in dark kohl, her lips a little too red. She looked at home here, yet not comfortable.
The healer poured water from a clay jug into a shallow bowl, adding drops of oil that shimmered like gold. “Same time as last year?”
The woman nodded. “Clients don’t pay for babies.” Her tone was dry, but her fingers trembled as she unfastened the rest of her bodice.
The healer smiled faintly. “No. They never do.”
She dipped her hands into the bowl, the water hissing softly against her skin, then placed one cool palm over the woman’s belly. The touch drew a breath from her, half surprise, half memory, as warmth spread outward, soft as breath against bare skin.
“Breathe,” the healer murmured. “Let it pass through you.”
The woman obeyed. The warmth deepened, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat, each wave lighter than the last. The ache of her long nights dulled, replaced by something weightless, not pleasure, exactly, but release. She exhaled slowly, her eyes fluttering shut.
For a moment, the air hummed, full of unseen voices. The healer whispered a string of old words that no longer belonged to any living tongue. The woman’s body softened beneath her touch, and when the last word faded, she smiled faintly, dazed and calm.
“It’s done,” the healer said. “One year’s grace.”
The woman sat up, retying her dress with slow, lazy movements. “You make it sound like a blessing.”
The healer’s smile did not reach her eyes. “In its way, it is.”
The woman dropped a small pouch of coins on the table. “Keep the change,” she said. “You always do good work.”
The healer nodded, watching her leave.
When the door closed, she pressed her hand to her own abdomen. A faint echo of warmth still lingered there, sweet and heavy. She whispered a name, one she didn’t know, and felt the echo fade.
Outside, the woman’s laughter drifted down the street, light and practiced, already forgetting how close the ritual had come to love.

Healer giving contraceptive treatment

## The Hands That Mend

Healers are the masters of flesh. They mend bone and sinew, purge fever, repair shattered organs, and restore the body’s balance. Their craft is part medicine, part invocation, and part sacrifice.

They feel the living pulse of the world most keenly. To them, the body is not a shell but a language, and they have learned how to make it speak. Some use herbs and touch, some whisper words that coax the blood to obey, others simply reach out and command the wound to close.

Their powers can enhance strength, still pain, and renew youth. Yet the body is honest, and every change must be balanced. What they take away must go somewhere.

## The Law of Exchange

To heal is to absorb. When a healer mends a wound, the damage does not vanish, it transfers. The most skilled can pass it into the earth or scatter it to the wind. The rest bear it, at least partially, in their flesh until it fades, leaving scars invisible to others but felt in every breath.

Pain behaves the same. To erase it is to draw it inward. After years of practice, a healer’s nerves burn constantly, humming with echoes of every injury they have ever mended.

Some learn to silence it, others begin to crave it. There are healers who injure themselves before their work, claiming the pain sharpens their focus, and there are those who weep after every healing, because the body remembers even when the mind does not.

## The Gift Turned Inward

The same touch that heals can harm. By reversing the flow, a healer can rot flesh, twist bone, or stop the heart with a whisper. Few admit to knowing the technique, yet every ruler’s personal healer does, a secret weapon wrapped in compassion.

Others turn their art inward, exploring the limits of sensation. Some dull every nerve until nothing hurts. Others chase pleasure until their bodies fail from exhaustion. The border between healing and indulgence is a thin one, and many cross it willingly.

The most feared are the flesh-sculptors, who believe perfection lies not in curing the body but remaking it. They graft skin, alter bone, and mold living flesh into art or abomination. Some healers turn their art to punishment, molding the flesh of the condemned into living warnings, their twisted forms left to breathe and beg, reminders that mercy, too, can be cruel.

## The Price of Mercy

The cost of their craft is not only physical. Healers live surrounded by suffering. They feel it as others feel warmth or cold. Over time, compassion dulls, replaced by fascination.

A seasoned healer knows how far blood can be pushed before it stills, how deep a wound can go before the soul slips free. Some say that is how the killers are born, not from cruelty, but from curiosity.

And yet, without them, kingdoms would collapse. Armies march because healers stand behind them. Children live because healers bend the rules of death for a moment longer.

Every powerful person keeps one close, and never sleeps too deeply in their presence.

## Theories and Whispers

Scholars argue that healing is not magic at all, but theft. The healer steals vitality from the living world and gives it shape. Each cure leaves the earth a little weaker, each miracle a little more hollow.

Others claim that healers are half-possessed, drawing on the life force of something ancient and patient that feeds on suffering. It gives them power not from kindness but from appetite.

## Healers and Society

Healers are both cherished and feared. To the common folk, they are saviors, workers of quiet miracles who draw sickness from children and knit bones with a touch. Yet beneath the gratitude lies unease, for everyone knows their power runs deeper than kindness. The same hands that mend can maim, the same knowledge that restores life can unmake it. People smile and bless them in the streets, but few will meet their gaze. Even those they save whisper that no healer’s gift comes without a scar.

In the slave markets, healers are as valuable as chains. Their touch reshapes flesh to please a master’s whim, sculpting bodies into beauty or obedience. They can still the womb or fill it, erase scars or carve new ones as warning. A rebellious slave might wake remade, their face a mockery of their former self, their hands twisted useless, their voice silenced by precision and skill. In such places, the healer’s art is not mercy but control. They do not heal, they shape property.

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