The sound of spell-slinging and blades cutting through the air dominates the land. Not many dares live among them, not without armor, shield, or weapon. A few though—those who serve the Great Mother—do.

Most of the time, they heal the sick and needy whenever necessary, without question or prerequisites. That's why every mortal community was quick to accept them, quick to treat them with respect and deference.

This one is different, though. They're from a very specific chapter of the Great Mother's Temple: The Chapter of Holy Fire. They walk through the battlefield with purpose in their gait and an unbending expression on their face.

Their sharp eyes gaze upon the dead and wounded and seek specific kinds of marks on their shoulders. They meet some that are without, some that try to falsify it, but only stop for the people with the true mark—the rebels.

Most of them see righteousness in their actions, though some hesitate to ignore the suffering of their enemies, for the Great Mother loves all, no matter the crime.

Despite their doubts on the virtue of their conduct, they move forward, because the woman leading them does not stop. Her bright blue eyes always look forward, toward the people she helped and will help.

Her expression's a mask, unchanging and hard. Contrasting them is her tone: a mountain water cold, refreshing and soothing. Supporting them are her words: kind and unwavering.

With steps steady, she continues on her pace, ignoring her surroundings, who ignore her in return.

As the day continues, spells badly missing, reach her instead; errant arrows and wild blades seek the taste of her flesh.

And despite the protective spells she cast upon herself, she still ends it with gashes, some trivial and others deep in her soot-covered porcelain skin. Having exhausted her spells for the day, she spent the night healing again.

Manually, she cleans her own wounds, stitches her flesh together, and then gives them bandages before her feet move again to the people who follow her to the battlefield today. Once more, she heals other people.

It was almost midnight when she was done checking on the last of her colleagues, so she took her time cleaning herself with a wet towel, avoiding the freshly dressed wounds while still addressing her hygiene.

Without the cover of her habit, burn marks that ran through the entire left half of her body, including her face, become visible. The reason many people fear her the first time they laid eyes on her. A problem easily solved after they knew she was the Matriarch of the Chapter, and an excellent healer besides.

Still, she would've hoped they see her as more than that; wishing more than anything that such a fear does not turn into a deference that distances them from her. After all, before anything else, she's human.

"Am I not?" she asked the gentle wind while studying her left palm, marred by fiery fire. When no answers came, she sighed and moved on.

Her last destination was the center of the temple, the main place of worship. There, she stands alone, her golden hair shining under the moonlight. The prayers that escape her lips are a prayer in the Second Tongue, a liturgical language with no written form.

Almost half an hour she remained there before she finally decided to stop, lest she fall from the day's exhaustion. Sleep came easy to her, with no dreams blooming inside her focused mind.

With no need for alarm, she rises earlier than the sun. And again, she repeats her routine. A wet towel bath to start the day, the wearing of her habit, the prayer, breaking fast with her colleagues, then... nothing.

No drums of war, no horns, no trumpets, nor enemies at their gate.

The confusion it causes to the people in the temple—her included—is obvious, but before she can go to the command's tent and ask for clarity by herself, the commander himself pays her a visit.

"My apologies, Matriarch," he says when their eyes meet, bowing.

"Ana is fine, General," she replies with a hand offered in peace.

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But the man didn't see it. "Of course, Matriarch Ana." And corrects himself in a way that almost makes Ana wince, as if the title hurts her. "My apologies again."

Seeing no way to corrects the man attitude or way of addressing her without completely derailing the conversation, Ana ignores them, then: "Accepted." With a quick word, she dismisses the topic. "Is that all, General?" And returns them to the most important one.

"No... of course not, Matriarch Ana." The general raises his head to look her in the eye. "Apologies again." Before dipping them low once more.

Almost a year she was here and still she was unsure whether the general was an apologetic man to everyone or just to her, and if it was the latter: what caused it? The tone of my voice?

Keeping the question at the back of her throat. "Accepted." She repeats the same response before trying to steer them back to the topic once more. "I assume it has something to do with today's lack of battle?"

"Yes, Matriarch Ana."

"I assume the decision is recently made?"

"Yes, Matriarch Ana."

"I assume the intelligence that informs such a decision is confidential?"

"Ye—no, Matriarch Ana."

She raises an eyebrow at the unexpected answer. After all, despite the man's deference and apologetic nature to her—if not to everyone—he's still a great leader of an army, lovingly holding all of his cards close to his chest is his nature.

Out of curiosity, then: "Are you willing to share?" she asks.

"Yes, Matriarch Ana." The general quickly answers before continuing. "An extended engagement with the enemy has caused the tally of our dead and injured to expand exponentially, and the effective blockade of some of our supply chain amplifies the effect. This is all not helped by the current stalemate, further reducing the troop's morale."

"But we have experienced this long before, have we not, General?"

"We have, Matriarch Ana. But... this is the first time the enemy decided not to engage us. There's no movement from anywhere. Not from the besieged city or from the surrounding woods. We are... safe." He says the last word with disbelieving eyes as if refusing still to accept that it's real.

"I see...," she whispers low, quickly thinking and deciding the next course of action. Before the general can cut her off with another apology or a yes, she continues: "Then I shall assign most of my colleagues to the medical tent today, to take care of the injured. The rest shall help you perform burial rites for your soldiery, may their souls quickly return to the Source."

"Thank you, Matriarch Ana!" The man bows deep again, out of gratitude this time, it hides a genuine smile that reaches his eyes.

But Ana catches them, reinvigorated by it. "It is my pleasure, General," she replied, honest and genuine.

Having decided on the next course of action and seeing the general leave the temple, she informs her peers of the plan, assigning them to their duties before she walks towards the medical tent, where she will be most helpful.

Most of the people here can be helped by mundane means, one which she's also an expert in. The ones that can't be helped by sutures, casts, and bandages have spells cast on them, quickening their own body healing capabilities, regenerating missing limbs and organs, and even curing them of battle fatigue.

The case that can't be helped by the mundane and magical, though, is the reason why Ana is there today. Sometimes, an assault is so fatal and deadly, that even when the victim survives the immediate attack through the help of the mundane and magical, they have no future but death due to the injuries the strike causes.

She will not have that.

No ally of hers shall die under her watch, not while she draws breaths. A deep one she takes before she sits beside the bed of the young woman who gazes upon her half-conscious.

"Are you... Death?" she asked, voice hoarse and resigned.

"No," Ana answers while her hand takes hold of the deep wound in the woman's chest. "I am not," she repeats, unsheathing the dagger hidden in her habit.

The young woman's eye went wide when she caught the glint of steel. Expecting such a reaction. "You will not meet the Merciful Blade today." Ana tries to calm her down with a voice so commanding and sure that the soldier locks eyes with her.

And with a promise. "You are going to be okay." She stabs her own chest slowly; at the same place the woman suffers her laceration. Some patients, including the woman, gasp at such a display, but her colleagues pay her no attention, they know what she's doing.

Empathetic Healing. As the dagger cuts her skin and sprays red to her habit, the incision on the woman closes a little. When the daggers dig deeper and burst open more veins, the woman's gash becomes shallower instead. And when it reached the same exact depth as the woman's injury, it was gone entirely.

The woman still needs healing and rest, certainly, but she's not safe from the worst. The same cannot be said for Ana. Her breathing is heavy, her consciousness threatening to slip away, leaving her in a pool of her own blood.

But before they can escape: she takes hold of her own mind and speaks a prayer in the Second Tongue. Unlike the way she prayed this morning or last night, her words are forceful and quick as she once again takes hold of the dagger and swiftly pulls it free from her chest, so close to her beating heart it bites.

But the prayer should be enough to guard her from death and exhaustion. With that in mind, she stands. "Have a fast recovery, Ms...?" she asks, bleeding and pale.

"Um.... Baker."

"Have a fast recovery, Ms. Baker," she repeats, then. "You're out of the worse, but still have some wounds on you that are not entirely artificial," Ana explains, dripping blood on the floor. "So please don't force yourself to do any hard labor until we give you the permission to do so."

Rendered speechless by the absurdity of what's currently happening, the woman can only nod, enough to satisfy Ana.

She nods back. "Good day." And walks away.