THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR

She remembered the night her Third Legion had been ambushed at Redwater Crossing. With their medical corps cut off, she'd been forced to adapt her flame sorcery to treat the wounded while simultaneously coordinating a defensive perimeter. By morning, she'd saved seventeen soldiers who would have otherwise bled out—and her strategic repositioning had turned the ambush back on their attackers. That night had taught her the value of versatility, of using every tool available in unexpected ways.

"You learn to improvise when the battle plan fails," she murmured to the unconscious elf as she carefully applied a poultice to the worst burns. "Strategy is about adaptation as much as preparation."

A knock at the door interrupted her work. Elara tensed momentarily before recognizing the particular pattern—three soft taps followed by a pause and then two more. The slave merchant's delivery.

She opened the door to find three individuals standing in the hallway—two women and a man, all wearing the simple gray clothing that marked them as temporary contract servants. The oldest woman, her hair streaked with silver despite her relatively youthful face, stepped forward with a respectful bow.

"My lady, we are sent to assist," she said, her voice carrying the lilting accent of the northern provinces. "I am Maelis. I have served as a field healer for sixteen seasons."

"Enter," Elara instructed, assessing them quickly. None showed signs of being more than they appeared—no masked magical signatures, no hidden weapons, no indications of enhanced abilities. Just three ordinary people temporarily bound to service.

As they filed into the room, Elara provided concise instructions with the same authoritative tone she'd used to command battalions. "You," she pointed to Maelis, "prepare these herbs according to standard medicinal procedure. You," she addressed the younger woman, "heat water and prepare clean bandages. You," she indicated the man, "stand guard at the door. Alert me if anyone approaches."

The servants set to work with the efficiency of those accustomed to following orders. Elara returned to Sylindra's side, carefully applying the prepared poultice to the worst of the burns. As she worked, she generated a small flame in her palm—not the roaring conflagration of combat, but a gentle, controlled manifestation barely larger than a candle's flame. She passed it over the poultice, activating the herbs' properties through measured heat.

As Elara treated one particularly severe burn along Sylindra's side, she noticed Maelis's practiced movements from the corner of her eye. "Your hands move with military precision," she observed. "You've done this on a battlefield before, haven't you?"

Maelis paused briefly, then continued her methodical preparation of the herbs. "Yes, my lady. During the Battle of Succession between the Emperor and Empress of the Sun." A shadow crossed her features. "I served the Emperor's forces. When we lost, many of us became war slaves."

"The losing side often provides the empire's most useful servants," Elara remarked neutrally, revealing nothing of her own past. She studied Maelis more carefully, assessing both her skills and potential risks.

Elara moved her flame to another area of damaged tissue. "These burns remind me of reports from the Crimson Moon Campaign. A battalion caught in a witch's blood curse. The wounds resisted conventional treatment."

"In the northern territories, we used spider silk bandages soaked in salamander oil for similar magical burns," Maelis offered, her professional knowledge temporarily bridging the gap between commander and servant.

"Effective," Elara noted, appreciating the woman's knowledge. "We'll use something similar here, though modified for elven physiology."

As they worked in practiced coordination, Elara found herself falling back on skills developed through necessity rather than training. The battlefields had been her education—each campaign teaching her new ways to adapt her flame sorcery beyond mere destruction. Where conventional commanders saw magic solely as a weapon, Elara had always recognized its versatility as a tool.

The irony wasn't lost on her that she now applied these battlefield skills to an elf—a member of a race the empire had systematically attempted to eradicate. Yet pragmatism recognized no political boundaries. A strategic asset was a strategic asset, regardless of the shape of its ears or the color of its blood.

"Victory comes through unexpected means," she murmured, quoting one of her own tactical treatises.

Hours passed as they worked methodically, cleaning wounds, applying medicines, changing bandages. Sylindra remained unconscious throughout, though her breathing sometimes quickened when particularly painful areas were treated. Elara monitored her constantly, ready to administer a sedative if the elf showed signs of waking. This stage of treatment would be excruciating for a conscious patient.

By the time they finished, evening had fully descended outside. The servants stood at attention, awaiting further instructions.

"Return tomorrow at midday," Elara told them, placing a small pouch of silver on the table. "Bring fresh supplies according to this list." She handed Maelis a piece of parchment with careful notations.

After they departed, Elara sank into the room's single chair, allowing herself to acknowledge her own exhaustion. The magical healing she'd performed the previous night combined with today's physical exertion had depleted her reserves. She would need to rest soon to maintain her effectiveness.

Her gaze returned to Sylindra, who looked marginally better after their efforts. The immediate physical needs had been addressed, but true healing would require time and more specialized treatment. Perhaps Yue's alchemical knowledge would provide additional options.

Elara leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes briefly. Her position as Archon had taught her to evaluate situations not just medically but strategically. The elf represented both an opportunity and a complication. Her knowledge could prove valuable, but her presence created vulnerabilities. David's decision to purchase her freedom had been impulsive, though he would never admit to impulse. Whatever his true motivations, they were now committed to this course.

As a commander, Elara had learned to work with the situation presented rather than the one desired. Adaptation was essential to survival, both on the battlefield and in politics. For now, she would focus on what lay directly before her—a broken body in need of mending, regardless of the tangled web of consequences that might follow.

She opened her eyes and leaned forward to check Sylindra's pulse once more. Steady and stronger than before. A positive sign, however small.

"What secrets do you carry, Elf?" Elara whispered to the sleeping elf. "And what advantage will they grant us in the battles to come?"

The question hung unanswered in the quiet room as shadows lengthened and night descended on Valemir.