THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR-Chapter 323: WOUNDS AND REMEDIES.

The western market district of Valemir hummed with midday commerce, a chaotic symphony of haggling, proclamations of quality, and the occasional burst of laughter or argument. Elara moved through the crowded stalls with practiced efficiency, her hood drawn forward to shadow her features. The basket over her arm grew steadily heavier as she collected her purchases—medicinal herbs, clean bandages, salves, and several small clay pots of specialized unguents that had cost far more than their appearance suggested.

At a less reputable corner of the marketplace, she paused before a narrow stall shrouded in heavy curtains. The merchant, a rail-thin man with eyes like polished onyx, appraised her with the calculating gaze of someone who sized up potential clients quickly.

"Seeking assistance?" he inquired softly, his accent marking him as from the eastern provinces.

"Three," Elara replied, her voice neutral as she slid a small pouch of gold across the counter. "One with healing knowledge, if possible."

The merchant weighed the pouch in his palm once before pocketing it without counting. "Location?"

"The Crooked Spire. Upper floor. They'll arrive within the hour?"

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"As requested," the man confirmed with a slight nod. "Discreet service guaranteed."

Temporary slaves—or "assistants" as the more genteel establishments called them—were a common purchase among Valemir's visitors. The legal fiction of short-term contracts rather than ownership maintained the capital's veneer of civilization while changing nothing about the underlying reality. Elara found the practice distasteful but pragmatic. Proper medical care required extra hands, and hired help asked questions.

As she left the slave merchant's stall, a commotion near the central fountain caught her attention. A battalion of imperial guards escorted a man in chains—his face bruised, his eyes wild with fear. Deserter, most likely, or perhaps a spy. The crowd parted reluctantly, some turning away while others watched with the morbid fascination of those witnessing another's misfortune.

The sight triggered memories Elara had carefully compartmentalized. Not so different from the prisoners she'd treated during the border conflicts—enemies and allies alike brought to the medical tent with injuries both physical and spiritual. The elven prisoners had been the worst, their immortal bodies capable of enduring tortures that would have mercifully killed a human. She'd seen elves like Sylindra before—bodies broken beyond recognition, minds fractured by trauma yet stubbornly clinging to consciousness.

"Flame preserve us all in our darkness," she murmured, a commander's mantra rather than a religious invocation.

Elara adjusted her basket and continued through the market, collecting the final items on her mental list. A crone with fingers stained permanently green sold her bundles of rare bloodroot and dreamer's respite—herbs that grew only in the shadow of ancient ruins. A cheerful baker with flour-dusted cheeks provided soft, easily digested bread made with bone broth rather than water. A somber alchemist with a missing left ear supplied tinctures of moonsilver and distilled essence of dawn lily—exorbitantly priced, but essential for treating magical injuries.

By the time she returned to The Crooked Spire Inn, the afternoon had begun its slow decline toward evening. She nodded briefly to the innkeeper, who responded with the practiced disinterest of someone accustomed to minding her own business. The stairs creaked slightly under Elara's weight as she climbed to the upper floor, her senses automatically checking for signs of unwelcome attention or magical surveillance. The capital was never truly safe, especially for those with secrets.

She paused outside Sylindra's door, extending her awareness before entering. David and Luna's energy signatures lingered in the ambient magic of the surroundings, but they were no longer present. Good—she preferred to work without an audience. Even Luna's predatory observation made precise healing more challenging.

Elara entered quietly, closing the door with barely a sound. The room remained much as she'd left it hours before—curtains drawn against the sunlight, a single oil lamp providing minimal illumination. Sylindra lay motionless beneath the blankets, her chest rising and falling in the even rhythm of deep sleep. The fever had broken, but true recovery remained distant.

Setting her basket on the room's small table, Elara began arranging her purchases with methodical precision. The herbs were sorted by purpose—pain management, infection control, tissue regeneration, spiritual cleansing. The bandages were stacked according to size and material. The unguents and tinctures were arranged in order of application.

As she worked, she continually monitored Sylindra with her peripheral senses. The elf's aura had stabilized somewhat since morning—the jagged edges of spiritual damage beginning to smooth, the bleeding points of magical trauma clotting. Elara's flame healing from the previous night had established anchor points around which natural recovery could begin. Not a cure, but a foundation.

Once her supplies were arranged to her satisfaction, Elara approached the bed and gently drew back the blankets. Sylindra's injuries remained stark in the lamplight—burns covering nearly half her body, bones that had been broken and reset improperly, muscles atrophied from long confinement. Beyond the physical damage lay deeper wounds—psychic trauma evident in the occasional tremors that passed through the elf's body even in sleep, magical residue from whatever rituals had been performed upon her.

"I've seen worse," Elara murmured to herself, though the statement was only marginally true. "At least you're still breathing."

She began with a careful physical assessment, her trained hands moving with detached professionalism over Sylindra's injuries. The burns were oldest—years rather than months—and had healed poorly. The broken bones had been set with deliberate incorrectness, maximizing pain while maintaining functionality. Whoever had tortured the elf princess had been skilled in their cruelty, understanding precisely how much damage a body could sustain without dying.

As she worked, Elara's mind drifted to similar cases she'd witnessed during her campaigns. Before becoming Archon of Lysora County, she'd commanded troops in three border conflicts, including the bloody campaign against the Witches during the Crimson Moon. Though never formally trained as a healer, necessity had forced her to develop a pragmatic understanding of battlefield medicine. Her flame magic, primarily a weapon of devastation, had proven unexpectedly effective for cauterizing wounds and purging infections when controlled with precision.