Fortifications are enacted against unauthorized entry to the estate, yet complete lockdown is infeasible for business. Rattling off familiar names here and there would be enough to convince sentries to let Timo back in.

Midday, Kazerus answers a knocking to his door, and finds the prodigal son has returned. He shields his eyes from the sudden brightness. Abrasive in tone, he says, "Timo! Where've ya been?"

"Someone invited me to go camping with them, and before I could say anything they packed me onto a wagon, and then I got food poisoning, so the trip took an extra day--"

Kazerus raises his right hand. "Ah, forget it." His left arm and palm are wrapped tightly with gauze, crusted blood spotting like cow markings.

Without missing a beat, Timo enters the cabin and lends out a gently curved hand, a gesture to simulate concern. "What happened to your arm?"

Kazerus sits down on the floor mat, dragging out the table with his uninjured arm. "Work accident, it’s not a big deal. I’m lucky I get to keep it at all."

"That’s why you’re home at this hour. Can I see it?"

"I’m not going to unwrap it." Kazerus lays his arm down carefully, pursing his lips.

"The dressing needs changing at some point. How long have you had it?"

"Two days, so it can wait--"

"Let’s do it right now!" Timo starts rummaging through the shirts that hang off of Kazerus’s wall, searching for a suitable fabric.

"Hey, hey, hey--"

"Do you have any extra gauze? I can ask the cheesemaker--"

"Timo! Don’t worry about me. Just go to the butchery like usual."

Timo loses his enthusiasm and paces around the tiny room. He sits down next to Kazerus’s arm and strokes his hand. "Did it hurt?"

"Oh, it hurt like a hound. I tripped and fell over a corner slicer, and--what’re you doing? This isn’t a toy!"

Timo had begun untying the bandage. Kazerus swats at Timo, trying to get him to stop. Timo presses the arm harder into the table, shouting, "I’m not playing! Don’t move!"

Detecting that he is perfectly serious, Kazerus sucks in his breath and says, "Ok, you’re allowed to change it."

As Timo unwraps the dressing, even the littlest vibrations send pain and chafe Kazerus. The butcher shuts his eyes several times, the gash raised and bruised like burnt toast, which admittingly made him queasy.

Timo fetches a rag and dips it into a jug of wine, then wipes it slowly around the wound. He blows on the alcohol to make it dry. A few words slip out of his mouth, like "mirror" and "cannon," but otherwise his mutterings are incomprehensible. What’s even more strange is the glassy sheen that has taken over his pupils, focusing at an infinite distance.

As Timo wipes his fingers over the stretches of skin, Kazerus could not believe his eyes. With each pass and iteration, the scabbing washes away like warpaint. On closer inspection, the strands and wrinkles palisade, melding and shrinking until the crumbs dissolve away. When the physical scars are erased, Timo releases the arm and lays down on his back.

Kazerus sits petrified. His arm is sore and wickedly itchy, but he doesn't dare move for a few minutes. Is the wound closed? Finally, he flexes out of the bandage nest, massaging his arm. He scooches over to check on Timo, who lies underneath the table, breathing laboriously, sweating, teeth clattering.

"Do you need a drink?" Without hearing an answer, he gets up and selects the mildest wine from his collection, taking the canteen with him. Sadly, he does not own much in the way of water.

Unable to suppress an earful grin, Kazerus sets two cups onto the table and pours. "In all my life, I’d never expect you’d turn out to be an honest-to-goodness healer."

Timo crawls upright, holding his chest, and reaches pitifully for the cup. "I went to the clinic." He dumps the wine down his pipe.

"Really? I guess you’re forgiven. If only you’d stop running away like a rascal!"

"Buy me candy. I love sweets."

"You know we can’t afford that." Kazerus shakes his head which turns into nodding. "I can’t believe it! I still can’t believe it! Does it take a lot out of you?"

"I...don’t know. I’ve always been sensitive." He drained all of his mana in one shot. Timo knows his pool isn’t as full as the average person’s. He might not make a capable healer in the future.

"Damn, a baby healer born in front of my eyes. I can’t believe it." Kazerus smiles so hard his eyes tear up, and his voice and laughter are extra boisterous. As he takes the day off to tidy up his cabin, he feels bad that Timo has been so depleted, the kid doesn’t even move from the floor until the next morning.

Kazerus attends work, and when he's heaving planks of wood early in the shift, Cloud-Brow exclaims, "Back so soon? How's your arm, son?"

Kazerus pulls up a sleeve to reveal the unbandaged arm. "It's all right now. The shrimpling is a healer!"

In a far off rack, Timo smacks hanging hams with a paddle to tenderize them.

"No way," Cloud-Brow begins, "Seriously? Did we help him discover his talent?"

Kazerus laughs heartily. "What did I say? Butchers are the most important members of society!"

For lunch that day, the crew proposes a toast for Timo, which catches the boy off-guard.

"To Timo, the healer of Rastincorsa!" Cloud-Brow raises a clay bowl.

"To Timo!" they say in unison.

The child, a midget sitting amongst giants, smiles doggedly. Yes, keep the praise coming. He raises a bowl, oversized in his hands, and gulps the cider, feeling warm and fuzzy inside even before the alcohol hits.

Big-Knee breaks his taciturn demeanor. "What’s it like casting your first healing spell?"

Timo doesn't remember how exactly he felt when he healed Kazerus. It was similar to when he killed Harcus, but more constrained and unpleasant. "It's like swinging on a rope, where everything slows down, then speeds up, like watching a toad's throat swell and shrink. And then, like popping a bottle, it fizzes all crazy until it ends." To generate sympathy, Timo adds, "Then I fainted."

"Providence!" Big-Knee slaps Timo on the back. "You need to eat more, little acorn." He nods sharply at Kazerus, who stares dumbly until he understands, then rubs a piece of bread around the empty pot, collecting juices and fiber. Kazerus gives it to Timo.

Wiry-Monkey asks, "You're gonna stick around as our medic, eh?"

Kazerus says, "If you do become a medic, you'd finally have money to buy sweets."

"Would I have to leave the butchery?" Timo asks.

"Only if you want to." Cloud-Brow caresses his own back. "But you wouldn't believe how the cityfolk live. They say everyone is filthy rich, washing down every meal with spiced wine, gold sewn into their netherwear--"

"It's not so bad here," Big-Knee says. "You don't need to go to school for them to teach the same folk medicine with bigger words."

"Don't pressure Timo," Kazerus interjects. "Let him decide. But also, don't tell any other soul on this farm about his healing, or they'll take him away."

They all nodded their heads. "Agreed."

Scorpion flicks his hands, and the funnel winds around his ear cease. Hidden in the dense grass, he had positioned himself at the bottom of the hill. The soundwaves from the butchery naturally fall, although a little amplification magic always helps.

So Timo lied about his abilities. Prodigy child stories are popular, but in reality, prodigies don't pop up randomly. Especially not healers. The training and knowledge prerequisites are immense. Physicians and apothecaries start young, and they need access to medical texts and techniques, such as having parents who are well-educated, who more often than not are medical professionals themselves.

The witchhunter rises out of the grass, his trenchcoat sleek and heavy. He heads to the next patrol point, chewing on a conundrum. Something is wrong. A disconnect somewhere. Where? Where would a slave gain such knowledge at an early age?