"Healer! Get moving! They need you in the triage tents now!"

  Elya stepped down, boots sinking into the mud. Around her, the chaos of war played out in grim detail. Wounded soldiers lay sprawled across the ground, some writhing in pain, others too still, their life already fled. The stench of burnt flesh and stale sweat hit her harder than any blow she'd taken in training.

  She forced herself to move forward, her hands already tingling with the familiar warmth of magic. The field hospital was a crude collection of canvas tents, stained dark with blood. Inside, rows of cots overflowed with the injured. The moans of the dying formed a haunting melody that echoed deep into the night.

  "You're the new one?" An older healer, his sleeves soaked crimson, barely glanced at her as he stitched a deep gash in a soldier’s thigh. "Good. We don't have time for introductions. If they're screaming, they're alive. If they're quiet, check their pulse. If they're dead, move them aside. Work fast."

  Elya swallowed and nodded, pushing past her initial horror. She had healed wounds before, treated sickness, soothed pain. But this, this was different. This was endless. The sheer number of broken bodies, the flood of suffering, threatened to drown her.

  She knelt beside the first patient, a man missing most of his right arm. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide with terror. "Please," he gasped, barely clinging to consciousness.

  Elya pressed her hands to the wound, magic flowing instinctively. Layers of golden light wove together, sealing arteries, regrowing flesh. The man's pain eased, his grip on life strengthening. Within seconds, his arm was whole again, his breathing steady. He stared at her in shock, flexing his fingers, fully healed and ready to return to battle. The other healers paused, their eyes wide as if she had grown a second head. They had never seen healing like this before.

  But it wasn't enough.

  The injured kept coming, pouring in like a never-ending tide. Hours blurred together. Her magic surged without limit, never dwindling, never depleting. She could have gone for days without physical exhaustion, her body unaffected by the constant healing. But her mind, her mind frayed under the relentless pressure, the unceasing agony of those she saved and those she couldn't. She ignored the throbbing in her skull, the creeping numbness in her thoughts. She couldn’t stop. Not now.

  By nightfall, she had lost count of how many she had saved. The flood of bodies had been relentless, each one another desperate plea, another set of eyes searching for salvation. She had worked tirelessly, watching wounds knit together, watching men and women who had been on the brink rise again. But she had also lost count of how many she hadn't saved. Those whose eyes had already gone vacant before she reached them, those whose injuries defied even her power, those who had slipped away with whispered names on their lips. The weight of it all settled deep in her bones, not as exhaustion, but as an ache she could not soothe.

  As she stepped out of the tent for a breath of fresh air, she realized the soldiers were watching her. They had been skeptical at first, dismissing her as just another healer. But now, their eyes were different. Respect. Awe. And something else, hope.

  She wasn’t sure she deserved it. But she would take it. Because tomorrow, more would come. And she would be there, ready to fight against the tide once more.

  The reality of war was worse than Elya had ever imagined. The triage tents overflowed, and the ground outside was slick with blood and mud. Screams of agony mixed with the distant clang of steel and the deafening roars of spell fire. She moved through the chaos with grim determination, pushing past the overwhelming tide of suffering.

  She had trained for this, but nothing could prepare her for the sheer scale of destruction. Soldiers with limbs missing, their wounds still seared shut from magical burns. Others coughing blood, their bodies wracked with infections and diseases that spread faster than they could be contained. For every soldier she saved, another took his place, broken and dying.

  She began to adjust. Instead of treating injuries one at a time, she layered her spells with greater precision, adjusting the structure of her magic mid-cast. She modified the speed and depth of the healing to ensure each soldier could regain their strength instantly. She focused not just on mending wounds but on revitalizing the body, allowing the healed to return to battle without a hint of weakness.

  The results were staggering. A man with a crushed ribcage gasped as his chest reconstructed itself in mere moments, his breath steadying as if he had never been wounded. Another, who should have taken weeks to recover from a punctured lung, pushed himself off the cot, rolling his shoulders as though nothing had ever happened. The healers around her froze, watching in disbelief as soldiers, once on the brink of death, stood and rearmed themselves within minutes.

  The disbelief grew into something heavier. The whispers among the senior healers sharpened into concern, their eyes narrowing with caution. Magic had limits. It always had limits. Yet, she had not stopped. She had not collapsed. And that was what disturbed them most.

  "What are you?" one of the elder healers murmured, his voice laced with unease, as another of her patients, fully restored, left the tent without hesitation.

  Elya didn’t answer. She didn’t have time to. There were still too many lives to save.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Word of Elya’s abilities spread through the ranks like wildfire. Soldiers spoke in hushed tones about the healer whose touch could mend wounds in moments, whose magic left no scars, whose patients stood up moments after treatment and returned to battle as if they had never been injured.

  It wasn’t long before the whispers reached the ears of the high-ranking officers. The commanders, men who had long accepted that war was a brutal numbers game where medics could only slow the inevitable, suddenly found themselves confronted with something they didn’t understand.

  Elya was summoned to a war council. The tent was thick with the scent of leather, parchment, and sweat. Generals and officers sat around a heavy wooden table, maps of battle lines sprawled before them. Their eyes bore into her, studying her as though she were an enigma, a weapon they hadn’t yet learned how to wield.

  "You’ve been healing soldiers at an unprecedented rate," one of the senior officers said, his tone unreadable. "Some of them should have died. You saved them. How?"

  Elya hesitated. These men weren’t healers. They wouldn’t understand the intricacies of her magic, nor did she particularly trust them with the details of what she could do. She chose her words carefully. "I heal efficiently. Faster than most. That is all."

  The commander seated at the head of the table leaned forward. "We require a demonstration. You understand, of course. We cannot place blind faith in something so… extraordinary."

  A soldier was brought before her, a grievously wounded man whose breathing was shallow, whose chest bore a deep gash that had already begun to blacken at the edges. He wouldn’t survive long without intervention.

  Elya knelt beside him, pressing her hands to the wound. The familiar glow of her magic surged through her, weaving flesh, forcing blood vessels to mend, sealing muscle and skin in mere moments. The soldier gasped, eyes widening as air filled his lungs freely once more. Within seconds, he was pushing himself upright.

  Silence filled the tent. The officers stared, some in awe, others in suspicion.

  "Gods," one of them whispered. "She really can do it."

  The commander’s expression was unreadable, but his next words sealed Elya’s fate. "From this moment forward, you are no longer just a healer. You will be assigned to where you are most needed." His gaze sharpened. "And sometimes, that will not be in the healing tents."

  Elya’s stomach tightened. She knew what that meant.

  They didn’t just want her to heal. They wanted her to be a weapon.

  The decision came swiftly. Within hours of her demonstration before the war council, Elya was informed of her reassignment. She would not remain in the healing tents. She was too valuable, too powerful, and the commanders saw no reason to waste her talent on merely tending to the wounded.

  A summons delivered her to a new part of the war camp, far from the cries of the injured. Here, the air crackled with raw magic, and the ground bore scorch marks from spell fire. This was where the mages trained, and this, she was told, was where she belonged now.

  "You will fight," a battle-hardened mage captain informed her, his voice steady and unquestioning. "You have seen what the enemy can do. Healing them after the fact is a kindness but stopping them before they strike is what will truly save lives. Do you understand?"

  Elya hesitated, but deep down, she knew the truth. No matter how fast she healed, no matter how many soldiers she saved, she could not keep up with the carnage. The best way to prevent death was to ensure the enemy never had the chance to strike in the first place.

  She nodded. "I understand."

  Her new unit consisted entirely of mages, battle-hardened warriors wielding fire, lightning, and shadow with deadly precision. They were nothing like the healers she had known. They spoke in harsh, clipped tones, their conversations laced with strategy, battle formations, and the quickest ways to incapacitate an enemy.

  At first, they looked at her with skepticism. "The healer," they called her, some with amusement, others with contempt. But Elya was determined. If she was to be here, she would not be dead weight.

  The call to battle came faster than she had anticipated. There was no time to hesitate. As her unit clashed with the enemy on the open field, she reached for the only combat training she had, the drills from the Tower, hazy memories buried beneath years of healing. It was barely more than instinct, but it was all she had.

  She lifted her hands, her focus narrowing to the enemy mages standing behind their foot soldiers. Unlike before, she did not unleash indiscriminate devastation. Instead, she targeted with precision, her magic cutting through the battlefield with lethal intent. Beams of pure light lanced out, striking down the enemy mages first. She could feel their barriers resisting, but the sheer focus behind her third-order spell shredded through them effortlessly. Flesh and mundane armor were nothing to her magic, it passed through as if they weren’t even there. Their bodies collapsed mid-charge, their attacks snuffed out before they could land.

  The battlefield stilled as those around her witnessed the carnage. Her fellow mages gawked at the devastation. They had seen fireballs incinerate squads, lightning rip men apart, but this was different. There was no smoldering aftermath, no burned bodies, just the absolute finality of her magic cutting straight through flesh and armor alike.

  The enemy hesitated, watching in horror as their strongest spell casters fell one by one, their defenses useless. Even those struck down stared in awe as they crumpled, their expressions a mixture of shock and grim acceptance. But those who remained did not retreat quietly, fireballs and spells designed for mass devastation arced toward her position, seeking to overwhelm her with sheer force. Those spells met her barriers and failed to penetrate. Her higher order spells were just too focused to be disrupted by first order spells.

  She had never taken a life before. The realization clawed at her insides, a cold nausea creeping up her spine. But she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop. Every time she hesitated, she saw the wounded back at camp, the soldiers who would never return home if she failed.

  Elya braced herself, shifting her focus. Even as her offensive magic pierced through her enemies, she expanded her defenses. Layer upon layer of shield spells unfolded around her and her comrades, forming a vast, protective dome that absorbed the incoming spells. The strain was immense, she could feel her magic surging through her body at an unprecedented rate, pushing the limits of what she could safely channel. The soldiers beside her cheered. Her fellow mages remained silent.

  They were no longer just skeptical. They were afraid.

  And perhaps, so was she.

  The enemy lines shattered, their formation collapsing as panic spread through their ranks. The sound of retreating footsteps mingled with the triumphant cries of her comrades. For the first time in weeks, the battlefield quieted, not in the uneasy stillness before another clash, but in the aftermath of a decisive, devastating victory. Soldiers clapped each other on the backs, some sinking to their knees in exhausted relief. Elya stood amidst them, breathing heavily, her fingers still tingling with residual magic.

  She had done this. She had turned the tide. And now, as she watched the blood-soaked ground settle into eerie silence, she realized there was no going back.