The storm passed sometime before dawn, leaving behind a sky bruised with purple clouds and streets streaked in silver rain. The gutters of Duskwatch still run red—not with blood, but with alchemical runoff from the apothecaries above the hill. A haze lingers in the air, thick with chimney smoke and low magic, coiling around the stone spires of the city like ivy. You walk through it without pause, your coat pulled tight, your bag of tools thumping lightly against your side. Another day begins.

Your clinic sits just beyond the Wyrmbridge, nestled in the crooked seam between the merchant quarter and the Fringe—where the city pushes its outcasts like forgotten luggage. No flags hang above your door. No gilded signage. Only the symbol carved into the lintel: a hand, palm open, stitched in goldleaf thread. An old sign. Older than the city. One the right kind of patients recognize.

You unlock the door.

The scent of antiseptic, dried herbs, and blood hits you immediately. Not fresh blood. Not panic. Just life—hard, heavy, and messy. On the cot by the window, a half-troll girl stirs, her fractured tusk held in place with enchanted splints. Her guardian is slumped in the chair beside her, a mountain of muscle and exhaustion. In the corner, a goblin with a fractured femur watches you with wide yellow eyes, clutching a vial of bone-growing serum like it might explode.

You nod once.

The work never stops.

Somewhere, above the richer districts, highborn mages debate the ethics of hybrid bloodlines and disease resistance. But down here, the arguments have already bled into skin. Into bone. You see it every day—wounds from silver, infections from cursed wounds, bodies breaking beneath the weight of prejudice and old magic. No two patients alike. No one textbook to rely on. Only your hands. Your training. Your stubborn refusal to let them be forgotten.

The clinic wards hum softly as you step deeper inside. They know you. They remember every wound stitched, every life saved. The scent of wolf fur and rust lingers near the back room—a werewolf pack brought their youngest to you last night, delirious and fevered from a bad transformation. You think he’ll make it. You hope he does.

The bell chimes.

You look up.

A pair of broad shoulders fills the doorway. An orc, tall and dust-covered, clutching his side. His breathing is tight, shallow. Behind him, a vampire leans heavily against the wall, her glamours flickering in the daylight as her eyes search yours, pleading. There’s blood between them. Not just on their clothes—but in their shared silence, in the way they support each other. Something went wrong. A fight. A job. A failed truce.

You step forward. No questions yet. You guide them in.

You’ve stitched flesh tougher than chainmail. Extracted poisons older than the Empire. Reattached wings. Rebuilt hearts—sometimes literally. They call you many things here: street doctor, bone-witch, corpse-mender, healer. You don’t care which name they use.

You just care that they walk back out alive.

This is where they come when no one else will touch them. When temples turn them away. When nobles call them beasts. When even their own kin whisper of curses and shame. You don't flinch at fangs, claws, or horns. You see what others refuse to see.

You see people.

And you save them.

One broken body at a time.