Morning crept into Livesey's clinic with the patience of habit. A narrow beam through the window, steam from the kettle, the soft scrape of porcelain on wood. To neighbors, the place looked like organized chaos: scrolls piled high, dried herbs hanging low, notes pinned over notes. Look closer and a rhythm appeared. The same hook for the same coat. The same drawer for the same gauze. Three measured sips before the cup returned to the same faint ring.
The bell rang twice. The postman. Livesey answered, traded a half smile, and returned with a sealed envelope. He opened it, read once, and stilled. The kettle's slow whistle filled the room. No curse. No sigh. Only a small tightening at the corner of his mouth. He folded the letter, slid it into the inside pocket of his white coat, and took another sip of tea.
The stairs creaked. Rem came down, hair damp, steps heavy. The compression shirt fit like resolve. The long black dagger rested at his lower back like a shadow that refused to leave.
"Morning," he muttered, dropping into the chair.
"You look like you fought a pillow and barely won," Livesey said, pouring a second cup.
"Feels about right. Head's clear. Body's loud."
"Good. It should be. Yesterday was worth the noise." Livesey slid the cup over. "Drink. Pretend it does not taste like boiled regret."
They ate in companionable quiet. Bread, onions, tea, the river breathing somewhere beyond the shutters.
After a while Livesey set down his cup. "I need to be out today. A consultation across the river. It may take the morning, perhaps longer. Will you run the counter."
"That is fine. I would have stayed anyway. I am still tired where it matters."
Livesey's eyes dropped to the dagger hilt and a grin found him. "Do you sleep with that thing now."
Rem snorted. "I wear it when I can. I want the weight to feel normal."
"I know. I will still mock you. A teacher's privilege." He eyed the floor. "I should charge it rent."
"I can drop it once to save on future carpentry."
"Do not you dare." Laughter chased the warning, and the old boards seemed to relax with them.
Rem's gaze drifted. Livesey let the quiet stretch, then asked softly, "What is clawing at you. And do not say nothing. You know I do not believe in that word."
Rem exhaled. "I saw Cecil after the exam. He asked me something I should have asked myself a long time ago. Why do you need to be that strong. I did not have an answer. He said my blade is heavy but my conviction is not. The strongest carry the heaviest reasons."
Livesey nodded, letting the weight of the words settle. "He is right."
"I thought being strong was enough."
"Strength without purpose is just weight," Livesey said. "A hammer without a nail. It still breaks things, but usually the wrong ones. Skill and muscle will take you through a hundred fights. A reason tells you which fight matters."
He paused. His voice softened. "The ones without reasons turn mercenary or worse, prisoners of their appetites. The ones who carry reasons endure. They build. They break less than they fix."
"How do I find one."
"You do not buy it like boots. You grow it. Part is given. Part is chosen. Start small. You hate seeing people die when you can help. That is a seed. Protect it. Nurture it. One day, when the world tries to twist you, that reason will hold you steady."
For a moment Rem looked younger. The hardness eased from his face. "That helps."
"Good." Livesey glanced at the stubborn wall clock. "And now I must go before someone across the river dies of spite." He shrugged into his coat, lifted the black case from its hook, and paused at the door. "Lock the till. Charge nobles double if they whine. Be kind to anyone who does not."
Rem gave a short laugh. "Yes, doctor."
Morning light sharpened as Livesey stepped outside. A carriage stopped at his signal. When the driver asked the destination, his voice dropped, grave and certain. "The Verran Mansion."
The road stretched long. Market clamor faded. Clean stones and wide streets took over. Livesey rode with the case on his knees and thought about things he did not say. The letter in his pocket weighed almost nothing and far too much.
At the mansion gates, guards checked the seal and waved him through. Halfway to the great house, Cecil waited, tall and composed. He bowed, not deep, but sincere.
"Master Livesey. Welcome."
"Spare me the honors. I am a simple doctor with a roof that leaks."
"An old friend of the Duke is never simple."
"Eleven years," Livesey said. Something easy moved in his face. "We are overdue for a quarrel over chess." He clapped Cecil's shoulder. They laughed, and an old knot loosened.
They walked under washed light. At a tall window Livesey slowed. In the training yard below, Evelyn moved like a decision. Two staves in her hands, each strike precise. Aura shimmered faintly. Sweat traced her back. She finished a pattern, stilled for one measured breath, then began again without hesitation.
"The youngest," Livesey murmured.
"Yes. Evelyn," Cecil said, pride edged with steel. "Diligent before. Since yesterday, more so. Someone lit a new fire."
"It is a gift to know what you are running toward," Livesey said. "I almost envy her."
They reached the Duke's door. Cecil announced him, then withdrew at the Duke's request.
The Duke sat upright in a bed designed by conscience and carpenters. Light admitted the silver in his hair. He smiled as if an old memory had just walked in.
"You do not owe me formalities," he said. "Not after eleven years."
"I prefer tea to apologies." Livesey set down his case, drew a chair close. "How do you feel."
"Better. Your remedies do more than prayers."
Livesey opened the case, then closed it again. "You did not summon me for the illness."
"No." The Duke's hands tightened on the blanket. "What happened, Livesey. Eleven years ago. You were the strongest battle healer in the Empire. Rank S. They called you unkillable. Then you vanished. Why."
Livesey stood. His face darkened. He unbuttoned his coat and raised his sweater.
The scar cut across him like an axe stroke from shoulder to hip, wide and deep, a wound no healer's hand should have left behind.
The Duke froze. His breath caught. "Impossible. You could regenerate even your heart. What could leave that."
Livesey lowered the fabric. His tone was quiet and heavy. "Something I will not name. We entered an S rank dungeon. Inside we found wrongness. I was the only one who left alive, and not whole. This scar will not close. There are truths I refuse to speak, not for myself, but because some stories feed themselves when told."
The Duke's hands trembled. "Is this tied to the boy who lives with you."
"Yes."
"He is not a normal young man."
"No. He is more. Precious, and dangerous. Both. That is why I ask you to keep silent. Do not repeat this. If someone must carry it, let it be me. I have already paid the price."
The Duke closed his eyes and opened them steady. "I promise. My lips are sealed. If you need me, ask. You have carried enough alone."
"Then help him," Livesey said. Urgency broke through. "Help Rem. You can open doors he cannot. Make him a candidate for the Academy's final year. He is a Hunter now. He needs peers who will push him. Alone, he sharpens himself against stubbornness. Give him better whetstones."
"Done," the Duke said. No theatrical pause. "There are rules, and there are exceptions. Leave it to me." He hesitated. "Tell me one thing. This will not bring ruin on my household, will it."
Livesey did not waver. "I do not bring storms into other people's homes. I cannot promise the sky will be polite. But I do not believe your family will pay for my past. Not if I can stand between."
The Duke exhaled. A small weight lifted from his shoulders. "Stay for lunch. Let us speak of anything but scars and sickness. I will even let you cheat at chess."
"Impossible. You play like a tyrant."
For a while they were just old friends. Bread, soup, and a joke good enough to make a sick man laugh, then laugh at the cough.
When Livesey left, the letter still pressed against his heart. The carriage rattled toward the city. The shop waited, with its particular kind of order, and above it a boy who wore a heavy blade because he had not yet learned the name of the reason he would one day carry.
Livesey told the driver to take the slow streets. The kettle could whistle without him a little longer.