Nicolette followed the armored stranger through a forest that glowed faintly under twin moons. Her senses were overwhelmed—strange birds called in the distance, and the air smelled of lavender and ash.
"My name is Kael," the man said, glancing over his shoulder. "Captain of the Dawnguard."
"I'm... Nicolette," she replied, gripping her glowing stethoscope like a lifeline.
They reached a clearing where wounded soldiers lay groaning. Kael knelt beside a boy no older than ten, clutching his stomach and whispering in pain.
"Our healers can't stop the fever," Kael said. "Can your magic help him?"
"It's not magic," Nicolette muttered, but her hands moved on instinct. She checked the boy's pulse, opened his shirt, and spotted a deep infected wound.
"No antibiotics… no IV… nothing."
Still, she cleaned the wound with warm water, crushed herbs Kael gave her, and applied them like poultices.
The boy's shaking slowed. His breathing steadied.
Kael watched in awe. "The prophecy said the Chosen would heal with no spell, no chant—just touch."
"I'm not chosen," Nicolette whispered. "I'm just a nurse."
But as the soldiers bowed before her, calling her Healer of the Realms, doubt crept into her heart.
What if this world needed her more than her own?