Chapter 3 – The Healer’s Hands

The first rays of dawn slipped through the flaps of the healer’s tent, soft and gold, painting faint streaks across the canvas. Aria stretched her sore arms, feeling the weight of exhaustion seep into her bones. She hadn’t slept at all.

The memories from last night—the laughter, the sneers, Damian’s cold rejection—had clawed their way into her chest again, leaving her raw and hollow. But she refused to let it break her. Not today.

Not when so many still needed her.

She tightened the ties of her healer’s apron and walked to the basin, pouring out the murky water and filling it anew. The crisp chill bit into her skin, shocking her awake, but she welcomed it. Pain was grounding. Pain reminded her she was alive.

Work. Heal. Keep moving.

Those had become her mantras.

When the wounds inside her screamed too loudly, she drowned them in the cries of others. When her chest ached with rejection, she silenced it with bandages, poultices, and remedies.

Her soul might be fractured, but her hands still had purpose.

The infirmary filled quickly. Word of her skill had spread, though no one would admit it aloud. Injured wolves trickled in, some carried by family, others limping on their own. The recent border clash had left the pack bruised and bloodied.

Aria moved among them with quiet efficiency.

She crouched beside a boy no older than twelve, his leg sliced open from knee to ankle. His mother wrung her hands anxiously, eyes darting to Aria with barely disguised disdain.

“Is there no one else?” the woman muttered. “An Omega treating my son…”

Aria’s lips tightened, but she kept her focus on the boy. His eyes brimmed with tears, his small frame trembling.

“You’ll be okay,” Aria said softly, her voice calm as a lullaby. “This will sting, but only for a moment. Do you trust me?”

The boy nodded quickly, eager for comfort even if his mother scowled.

Aria cleaned the wound carefully, her touch gentle, her movements precise. She hummed under her breath, an old tune her own mother used to sing when Aria was young. Slowly, the boy’s trembling eased, his breathing steadied.

“You’re brave,” Aria murmured as she stitched the gash with practiced hands. “Stronger than most adults I know.”

A faint smile tugged at the boy’s lips. “Really?”

“Really,” she said, winking.

By the time she tied the last stitch, his tears had dried. She wrapped the bandage snugly and patted his knee. “No running for a while, but you’ll heal well. And one day, you’ll have a scar to show off. A warrior’s mark.”

His chest puffed with pride at her words, though his mother sniffed in disapproval.

“Thank you,” the boy whispered anyway, his gaze lingering on Aria with gratitude his mother couldn’t erase.

Aria smiled back, warmth blooming in her chest. Those little sparks of kindness—those fleeting moments of connection—were what kept her going.

Not everyone was as appreciative.

Later, as she tended to a burly warrior with a dislocated shoulder, he sneered down at her.

“Careful, Omega,” he growled. “You break me, and you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Aria swallowed her irritation. She had to climb onto the cot just to get enough leverage, her small frame dwarfed by his bulk. With practiced strength, she snapped his shoulder back into place.

The warrior howled, then immediately rotated his arm in disbelief. Relief flickered across his face, but he masked it quickly with a glare.

“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” he muttered before stomping out.

Aria exhaled slowly, clenching her fists at her sides. No matter how many she healed, no matter how many lives she saved, she was still just an Omega in their eyes.

Still the rejected one.

Still the mistake.

But she forced herself to unclench her hands, to breathe. She wasn’t doing this for their approval. She was doing it because it was who she was. Because she couldn’t stand to see suffering when she had the power to ease it.

By midday, her body screamed for rest. Sweat clung to her hairline, her fingers cramped from endless stitching and bandaging. She sank onto a stool, sipping water from a clay cup, her gaze drifting to the entrance.

Wolves came and went, some limping, some groaning, some carried on stretchers. She tended to them all.

Yet every whispered insult, every suspicious glare, every muttered Omega trash scraped against her heart like sandpaper.

It would’ve been easier to shut herself off, to grow cold and detached. But Aria couldn’t.

When a young warrior sobbed over the loss of his brother, she sat with him long after his wounds were cleaned, letting him weep into her shoulder though others would mock him for it later.

When an elderly wolf winced at the stiffness of her hands, Aria massaged them gently with herbal oil, listening to the woman’s stories of her youth until her laughter filled the tent.

Aria gave them pieces of herself, even when they gave her nothing in return.

But not everyone left unscathed.

“Why waste your time?” a she-wolf scoffed as Aria tied a sling around her injured arm. “You’re not a real healer. You’re just playing pretend until someone competent shows up.”

Aria tightened the knot, perhaps a little more firmly than necessary. “You’ll find the sling supports the joint well enough. Unless, of course, you’d rather wait for someone more ‘competent’ while your arm hangs useless.”

The she-wolf glared but didn’t argue. She stormed out, muttering insults under her breath.

Aria sank back against the cot, biting her tongue. She rarely let her temper slip, but sometimes it was nearly impossible to stay silent.

They could tear her down all they wanted. But they couldn’t take away what she knew.

And she knew she was good at this.

She was meant for this.

As the day waned, Aria stepped outside to catch her breath. The sky blazed with streaks of crimson and gold, the setting sun painting the world in fire. She tilted her face toward it, closing her eyes as the warmth kissed her skin.

Her muscles ached, her back screamed, but a quiet pride curled in her chest. She had healed dozens today. Eased pain, soothed fears, saved lives.

And yet…

The moment she stepped outside, two passing wolves sneered at her.

“Look at her,” one said. “Parading around like she matters.”

“She thinks healing scratches makes her important,” the other snorted. “Still an Omega. Still nothing.”

Their laughter trailed behind them as they walked away.

Aria stood frozen, her throat tight, her chest hollow. For all her effort, for all the blood and sweat she poured into this pack, she was still invisible. Still disposable.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream, to demand that they see her, to force them to admit she mattered. But she didn’t.

Instead, she drew a long, steadying breath.

“Let them laugh,” she whispered to herself. “Let them sneer. My worth isn’t theirs to decide.”

The words wavered on her tongue, fragile and uncertain, but she clung to them anyway.

Because if she didn’t… she had nothing.

When she returned to the infirmary, the lanterns flickered low again, just as they had the night before. The scent of herbs and blood lingered in the air, heavy and sharp.

Aria sank onto her stool, cradling her head in her hands.

She was tired. Tired of fighting for scraps of respect. Tired of proving herself over and over only to be dismissed.

But as her hands pressed against her face, she remembered the boy’s shy smile, the old woman’s laughter, the warrior’s relieved tears.

Those moments were real.

Those lives were changed.

And if she had to bear the weight of rejection, of scorn, of invisibility to keep giving those moments to others… she would.

Because maybe—just maybe—her worth wasn’t in what the pack saw.

Maybe her worth was in what she gave, quietly, without recognition.

Her hands might be Omega hands, but they were healer’s hands. And they would not stop working.

Not now.

Not ever.