Leon worked swiftly, his hands stained with blood and grime as he bound the guard's leg with rough-hewn planks and strips of cloth he'd scavenged from his own garments. The guard had lost consciousness twice, his body shivering from shock, but Leon knew he was far from dead. The break wasn't too severe—painful, yes, but not life-ending. If Leon did his job right, the guard would walk again.
The overseers and guards huddled nearby, watching him with wary eyes, as though he might pull some miracle from the dirt. They whispered among themselves, their faces pale with fear, unsure if they were witnessing a healer's work or some kind of twisted magic.
Leon ignored them. His focus remained on the injured man. He pressed his hands down hard on the guard's leg, feeling the jagged edge of bone beneath the skin. His lips curled slightly in irritation—it was worse than he thought, but manageable.
"He's not dead," Leon said, his voice low and deliberate. "He's in shock, but he'll live."
The overseers exchanged uneasy glances. One of them, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward. "You're sure? Look at him, he's pale as death."
Leon glanced up, his dark eyes narrowing. "He's pale because of the pain. Not because he's dying. Now back off, unless you know how to set a broken bone."
The man hesitated but stepped back, clearly not wanting to get in Leon's way. He wasn't sure if it was because of Leon's calm command or the strange sense of control he exuded, but none of the overseers dared interfere.
Leon wiped his hands on his already filthy trousers before reaching into a small pouch of herbs he had scavenged the day before. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. He chewed the leaves into a paste, spitting it onto the cloth he'd bound around the guard's leg.
"This'll help with the infection," Leon muttered, half to himself. "If he doesn't die from the fever, the wound should heal clean."
The guard's body twitched as Leon tightened the makeshift tourniquet and adjusted the planks to splint the broken bone. His breathing was shallow, and his skin clammy to the touch, but he was alive.
One of the younger guards approached, his face twisted with disgust. "You're using spit and leaves on him? That's your great healing?"
Leon didn't bother to look up. "Spit and leaves are better than what any of you have to offer. Unless you've got clean water and proper herbs, this is the best you'll get."
The young guard sneered but said nothing more, stepping back with a look of disdain. Leon could feel the tension radiating from the group—fear, uncertainty, and a growing unease. These men had relied on brutality to maintain control, but now they were faced with something they couldn't understand.
The "healer ghost", "Vek's Hands", they whispered, the rumors already spreading through the camp like wildfire. The slaves had begun to see him as something more than human—an apparition sent to even the scales, to strike fear into the guards' hearts.
Leon smirked to himself. Let them believe it.
The injured guard stirred again, his eyelids fluttering. Leon leaned down, speaking quietly into his ear. "Stay still. The more you move, the more it'll hurt."
The man's eyes flickered open briefly, his face contorted with pain. But there was something else there, too—a hint of gratitude, of fear fading just enough to let him breathe.
"You'll live," Leon continued, his voice barely audible to the others. "But if you try to stand on this leg too soon, you'll regret it."
The guard nodded weakly before slipping back into unconsciousness. Leon stood, wiping the sweat from his brow. He glanced at the overseers, who were watching him with a mix of awe and suspicion.
"Take him somewhere he can rest," Leon said. "He's not going to be walking for a while, but he'll make it."
The scarred overseer stepped forward again, his brow furrowed. "How do you know he'll live? You're not even a real healer, just some slave who knows a few tricks."
Leon met his gaze, unflinching. "I've seen worse. Much worse. This? This is easy."
The overseer stared at him for a long moment before nodding to a couple of the guards. They hesitated but moved forward, carefully lifting the injured man and carrying him toward the barracks.
Leon watched them go, his mind already shifting to the next part of his plan. The guard's life was a small victory, but it was only the beginning. If he could prove his worth, if he could make himself indispensable to the higher-ups, then he could start turning the tides in his favor.
But there was one loose end that still nagged at him—Grig. The rat had been too quiet lately, and that made Leon uneasy. He needed to keep a closer eye on him, make sure the man wasn't getting any ideas. If Grig talked too much, everything could come crashing down.
Leon wiped his hands once more and turned toward the shadows. The day was far from over, and the night promised more work to be done. The guards might start to feel safe again after the accident, but Leon would make sure their fear never truly left.
He had plans, and they were only just beginning.