I swear before God that I shall uphold the following oath.
Ibel pressed both hands firmly against the wounded soldier's abdomen.
Even so, she couldn't stop the blood from seeping through her fingers.
If I don't at least do this, he'll be dead soon.
Most soldiers abandoned by their unit were doomed from the start. A bullet lodged in their flesh would eventually cause infection, and infection meant death.
Still, Ibel refused to give up. If she could save even one lucky soul, she would keep trying.
"Doctor! Doctor!"
The metallic scent of blood mingled with gunpowder, making her stomach churn.
Fortunately, she hadn't eaten anything. There was nothing left to throw up.
"Bring the patient over!"
"Gunshot wound!"
"Forget the report. Lay him down first."
No matter how desperately Ibel worked, the wounded continued to pile up.
Most suffered traumatic injuries that demanded the expertise of a skilled surgeon.
The problem was that Ibel wasn't a surgeon.
She was an internist.
She had only recently learned how to cut open human flesh, stitch wounds, and—most horrifying of all—dig bullets out of mangled bodies.
Perhaps she should be grateful that her senior military doctor had taught her that much before dying.
The thought crossed her mind with startling indifference as she gripped a scalpel in her hand.
"The brazier."
"Yes, Doctor!"
Even in wartime, even in a makeshift ward that barely qualified as a hospital, there were standards she refused to abandon.
Since antiseptics and anesthetics no longer existed here except in memory, she ordered her assistant to heat the blade until it glowed red and pour cheap, harsh liquor over the wound.
The alcohol supply had been cut off weeks ago.
By tomorrow, even this would be gone.
But if there was still someone she could save today, she intended to try.
"Hold him down. I'm removing the bullet now."
"Understood!"
Her assistant had gone pale from witnessing so many operations, but he obeyed bravely.
Without so much as blinking, Ibel sliced open the flesh.
"A-Abel... please... gently..."
"Shh."
Cold sweat gathered on her forehead.
The blond-haired officer groaned as she probed the wound, but she ignored him.
There was neither time nor luxury enough to comfort every patient.
Clink!
The metal fragment she extracted dropped into an iron basin.
Under normal circumstances, an internist performing surgery would have been absurd.
But these weren't normal circumstances.
Everyone more skilled than Ibel was already dead.
If there had been enough specialists to choose from, it wouldn't have been a battlefield.
It would have been a playground.
"Treatment's finished. Bandage the wound. If there's any liquor left, let him drink it."
She removed her gloves.
"It's all we can do for now. At least ease his pain."
"Y-Yes, Doctor!"
Perhaps it was exhaustion.
Her vision blurred.
The cold wind seeped through her uniform, making her body tremble.
Maybe I'm the one who needs a drink.
But Ibel never touched the alcohol.
Without her, there would be no one to grind medicinal herbs.
No one to remove bullets.
No one to keep the wounded alive.
There was an assistant, of course.
But she hardly trusted him with lives.
Ah.
Her eyes fluttered open.
Apparently, she had dozed off after sitting down on an empty supply crate.
A moment later, she realized what had awakened her.
A man who looked as though a military knife couldn't draw a single drop of blood from him was draping his jacket over her shoulders.
Not simply tossing it over her, either.
He carefully tied the sleeves around her to keep it secure.
Ibel knew exactly who he was.
"Your Grace, Duke Bayern."
"You were shivering."
"Thank you for your consideration."
Warm.
Because of the difference in their size, the jacket felt almost like a blanket.
Or perhaps it was because his body heat still lingered within it.
Either way, she was grateful.
Though she had no intention of interpreting his gesture as anything more.
The man feared across the Francet frontlines as the Ironblood Duke was hardly the type to harbor romantic interests in another man.
That was the thing.
Everyone here believed Ibel was male.
And she had no intention of correcting them.
After stealing her older brother's identity to become a doctor and subsequently being drafted into the army, she had no desire to make her circumstances any more complicated.
Silence settled between them.
Neither of them was particularly expressive, but Duke Bayern existed on an entirely different level.
She had once removed a bullet lodged in his ribcage with her own inexperienced hands.
Even then, he hadn't uttered a single groan.
Sometimes she wondered whether the part of him responsible for emotions had simply broken during childhood.
Still, after nearly a year surviving together in this wasteland, she had learned to read the smallest movements of his brows.
That expression meant:
Say something.
"The fact that we've sent multiple telegrams and received no reinforcements from the homeland..."
She spoke flatly.
"...seems to confirm we've been abandoned."
The duke narrowed his eyes.
Everyone knew that the young King of Richter felt threatened by Duke Bayern's popularity and accomplishments.
Even a gutter-born commoner knew that much.
When Ibel had first been assigned to this legion, she had already anticipated something like this.
"You don't seem afraid of death."
"I wasn't treated particularly well at home, either."
She shrugged.
"Why would dying frighten me now?"
"Aren't you resentful?"
His gaze remained steady.
"Half of this is my fault."
"I suppose I am a little resentful."
Her tone remained calm.
"I worked myself to death to become an internist, only to end up here."
She paused.
"Being forced to perform surgery wasn't exactly part of my career plan."
Another pause.
"And now that I think about it..."
For the first time, a trace of complaint entered her voice.
"The first surgery I ever performed being on Your Grace was rather unfair too."
In wartime, hierarchy should have been absolute.
Technically speaking, sitting casually before Duke Bayern and wearing his jacket were offenses severe enough to warrant punishment.
Yet Victor Bayern was far more generous than the terrifying rumors attached to his name suggested.
Especially when it came to debts and obligations.
Ibel had saved his life three separate times since that first operation.
Victor had never forgotten it.
Moreover, she was merely a doctor with no interest in politics or war.
She was younger than him.
And—
Frankly speaking—
She looked thinner and more fragile than the youngest officer in the camp.
All of these factors made Victor overlook a great many things.
Now that both of them had effectively been discarded by their king, perhaps he appreciated having someone with whom he could speak honestly.
"How many family members did you say you had?"
His voice was deep and pleasant.
Every time she heard it, she thought the same thing.
It was the sort of voice that seemed to brush softly against one's heart.
Realizing her thoughts were drifting in strange directions, she quickly answered.
"My parents are both alive."
"And I have one older brother."
Victor raised an eyebrow.
"You called him pathetic. Why?"
As he spoke, a large hand reached toward her face.
He brushed away a dried smear of blood from her cheek.
Then, after a brief hesitation—as though making some significant decision—
he poked her cheek.
Once.
Gently.
