The field clinic wasn't really a clinic.
It was a tent.
Half-ripped at the side, one corner weighed down with a broken sword instead of a proper stake. The inside smelled like burned cloth, sweat, and blood.
Too much blood.
Lindarion crouched beside the cot and peeled back the bandage on the soldier's arm. The flesh underneath was torn clean, too clean. Like something sharp had passed through without hesitation.
The man flinched but didn't cry out.
"You'll keep the arm," Lindarion muttered. "Barely."
The soldier tried to smile. Failed.
Lindarion held one hand above the wound and exhaled. Divine mana glowed faintly along his palm, gold and white, not bright enough to draw attention, just enough to help.
The body did most of the work.
His mana just nudged it along.
"I thought elves didn't use divine magic," a voice said from behind him.
Lindarion didn't look up. "Most don't."
"You're not most?"