Chapter Text
Maomao's breath formed in clouds in front of her, her makeup covered nose glowing red. The mountain air bit into her skin, her bones, her soul, encasing her in ice. Gritting her teeth, she refused to allow her hands to shake. Threading the needle through again, and again, and again – she would not tremble.
Light from the lamp held up beside her was flickering harshly as the medical student assigned to her shuddered. She hissed at the movement, earning a barely contained whimper from the boy that could not be much older than her.
This was not the first man on her table today, and it would not be her last. The kid needed more stamina. The tent may be doing little to nothing to stop the cold, yet she was grateful for it. Without it, the man laying on the cot in front of her would surely be dead from bleeding out. The cold slowed the blood from seeping out too harshly.
Dabbing more of the alcohol onto her cloth, she winced. If she had even some of her herbs or her resources from home, then she could make sure the man lived. The cheap rice wine that was being used as an antiseptic was surely no better than wiping the gash of a wound with water. Glancing up at the soldier’s face, she cursed herself for it immediately.
He was young, so young. He was probably taken from his parents by royal decree, unable to help his fate. Unable to help the fact that Maomao was currently looking at his jagged flesh and bone. Threading the needle through again, and again, and again. She would not tremble. This was just another body to fix. Another problem to solve. And that’s all that mattered.
Gods, I miss when poison was all that mattered.
When she was just the eccentric girl doing experiments on her arm, returning home to her father every day tending to his field. Taking long baths allowing Meimei and Pairin to wash her back. Her last day with the Three Princesses of the Verdigris House must have been at least six months ago, if not longer.
Her last day with her father…
Her nose twitched, allowing the copper-heavy scent of blood to wash away every other sense and thought. She focused on the wet, sliding sound of her needle as she worked through patient after patient, her steady hands using silk thread soaked in spirits and a needle curved like the talon of a hawk.
Every stitch a silent prayer to the ghost of the man who taught her how to mend what was broken.
Day fell into night, her movements steady, robotic, purely clinical. Finally, as more lamps and fires were lit to combat the darkness that fell, Maomao felt it.
The bead of sweat that rolled down her temple had Maomao itching to correct the flaw in her mask. She felt a spike of cold panic, fingers twitching with the urge to wipe it. She couldn’t. The ‘wax’ that she had applied to her face—a mixture of resin, pigment, and a mild irritant—created the illusion of blemished skin, a hardened jaw, a stronger nose. If she wiped her face, her ‘skin’ would simply come off with it.
Her chest, wrapped so tightly her ribs would bruise, felt as though it was in a vice as she struggled to control her breathing. She couldn’t do anything about her small stature, but presenting herself as a malnourished boy was something she could achieve. A scrawny 17 year old male with a forged ‘recommendation’ from a distant branch of the La family.
She finished the stitch, murmuring instructions to the medical student. She rolled out the knot in her neck and sighed as she disinfected her hands. That was the last body of the night. All that she had left was sanitising her set of instruments, and—
“They say that the Son of the La family works like a demon possessed,” a voice as smooth as silk yet as cold as a winter moon echoed from the tent flap. Maomao stilled as she felt him. Continuing her work, she didn’t look up. She didn’t need to—she knew that voice. She dutifully ignored his presence even as the hairs on her arms rose.
She had first met him in the palace. There, he had been a creature of otherworldly beauty, almost celestial. That was three months ago. Here and now, in the dirt and death of the front lines, he was a predator. His heavy armour was flecked with dried mud and blood, his long hair pulled back in a severe, practical tie. It only made his heavenly features stand out more.
Commander Jinshi.
“The General grows impatient, Lao,” Jinshi said, stepping closer until he was close enough for his armour to press against the table injured after injured were lying on. Close enough for Maomao—or ‘Surgeon Lao’ as she was known as—to smell the distinct sense of sandalwood and the ozone of an oncoming storm. “He wants the casualty projections for the siege. He expects his kinsman to be at the war council tonight.”
Maomao set down her instruments, taking the time to align them in a neat line before acknowledging him. Letting her bangs fall over her face, she saw Jinshi watching her.
But he wasn’t looking at her medical work. He was looking at her hands.
“I am a surgeon, Commander Jinshi, not a mathematician,” she replies smoothly, setting her hands firmly on the table and spreading her legs just a fraction, as she had studied men do when they spoke to a rival male. Her voice was low and raspy—a mixture of herbs and a trick of the throat she had practice until she made herself sick. “The General will have his numbers when my patients stop dying.”
Jinshi reached out. It was a fast, fluid motion that didn’t allow Maomao any time to react. He didn’t grab her as she expected, but rested a heavy, gauntleted hand on her shoulder. The weight of it was grounding and terrifying as he squeezed slightly. She chose to ignore the way that his calloused thumb slid over the base of her neck, down her collarbone.
Nothing good would come of focusing on anything to do with the Commander. Flying under the radar is in her best interests, not attending war councils.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured, eyes scanning her distorted face. “Is it the cold, or the thought of facing Lakan?”
Maomao froze. She could feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the chilled air. For a second, she feared he could hear the frantic drumming of her heart through her bound chest. Was her discomfort regarding the General obvious? She needed to be more careful.
Until six months ago, the chances of seeing that man who had previously claimed her as his own was close to zero. She had her sisters and her father to protect her. After that, it was always a risk.
She knew that this contract could lead her right into his grasp, but it was too good of an opportunity to pass up on. There was no way that the scrawny, mysterious man that had appeared at the palace and quickly become the programs prodigy surgeon would not say no. So, she didn’t.
And three months into the campaign, she was now handed a seat at the war table.
“It is the blood, Commander,” she lied, voice steadying with every word. “It makes the floor slippery.”
She jerked her shoulder away from him, patience thinning with a pointed glare. Jinshi didn’t pull away immediately. His hand lingered on her skin, his gaze flitting over her features. A second passed, and he blinked, pulling his hand away. He looked annoyed, and she genuinely could not tell if he was displeased with her or himself.
“Clean yourself up,” he commanded sharply. She glanced down; her doctors uniform was in fact stained with dark substances she didn’t want to consider. “I’ll wait outside; I’m escorting you to the Command Centre myself. Lakan is in a foul mood, and I’d rather you not get taken out before you can finish your ‘demonic’ work.”
He turned and left the tent briskly, leaving Maomao to stare at her hands. He was right. She was trembling. Not because of the surgery, and not even because of the General.
She was trembling because when the Commander touched her, when his thumb grazed her collarbone and left sparks in its wake, she had felt like a girl again.
And that was the one thing that would get her killed.