The Temple infirmary was quiet in the soft light of late afternoon. The air smelled faintly of herbal poultices and old linen - clean, but lived-in, the scent of work done well. Lytavis moved easily between her cots, charting the day's small ailments.
One novice sat with her head cradled in her hands, groaning about a candlelit study session gone far too long. Another lay curled on her side, pale and miserable with her moon time, muttering prayers that sounded suspiciously like complaints. A third had an ankle bound in fresh bandages, the result of running through the halls and missing a step.
Lytavis had just finished checking the bandage when the door opened and Tyrande stepped in, bright-eyed and breathless.
"Sister Perla said I should assist you today," she announced. "She said it would build character."
Lytavis arched an amused brow. "That usually means something unpleasant is about to happen."
It did.
Moments later, the door banged open again - two young acolytes half-carrying, half-dragging another between them. The girl's robes were scorched at the hem, her leg angry red from knee to ankle. The smell of singed cloth and magic hung in the air.
"She tried a cook-spell," one of the acolytes blurted. "The flame caught."
Tyrande froze. The injured girl's face was twisted in pain, and the sight of it rooted her to the spot.
"Breathe first," Lytavis said quietly, already moving. "Then see what's needed."
Her voice was calm, deliberate. She knelt beside the cot and murmured a cooling charm, her palms hovering just above the burn. The air shimmered faintly, the heat drawing away like a receding tide. The girl whimpered once, then exhaled in relief.
"Tyrande," Lytavis said without looking up, "the ointment, top shelf - green jar."
Tyrande blinked herself into motion, found the jar, and brought it over. Lytavis dipped two fingers into the thick, silvery salve and began smoothing it over the wound in slow, practiced strokes. "Light pressure," she murmured, "never more than the patient can bear."
Tyrande knelt beside her, watching intently. "It looks so…"
Lytavis supplied gently. "That's what pain is."
When the ointment was spread, she lifted the bandages from a nearby basket. "Here," she said, handing one end to Tyrande. Together they wound the linen around the girl's leg, careful and steady, until the burn was hidden beneath clean white layers.
"There," Lytavis said at last, tying the final knot. "You'll scar faintly, perhaps, but it'll fade."
The acolyte nodded, tears drying on her cheeks. Lytavis patted her hand. "Rest. No spells for a day or two."
When the others had gone, Tyrande sat back on her heels, quiet. "I didn't think it would hurt so much to see someone suffer," she said softly.
"That's how you know you're meant to ease it," Lytavis replied.
Tyrande watched in quiet awe. "You make it look effortless."
Lytavis gave a small laugh, shaking her head. "Effortless? Hardly. I've spent half my life with bruises on my knees from kneeling beside cots like this."
Tyrande blinked. "I didn't think healing took that much practice."
"It takes everything," Lytavis said gently. "Study, mistakes, sleepless nights - and then, if you're very lucky, the courage to try again anyway."
Tyrande looked down at her hands, suddenly thoughtful. "I always thought the Light just… listened."
"It does," Lytavis replied. "But only after you've learned how to listen first."