Page 8 of Death’s Gentle Hand

Of Splinters and Silence

Damian

D amian's hands trembled as he cleaned the time-burns across the young woman's palms—a betrayal from fingers that could not afford mistakes, not here, not now.

The wounds were severe, angry red welts where corrupted Hourveins had leaked temporal energy directly into her flesh. She'd been working in one of the illegal time-farms, extracting years from desperate souls in the deep boroughs where the Exchange didn't bother to look.

“Easy,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Just need to neutralize the temporal residue first.”

But his focus kept slipping in ways that alarmed him.

He kept sensing flickers at the edge of his awareness—ghosts of movement, shifts in air that should not have existed, chills crawling up his spine.

The sensation was like having someone standing just behind his shoulder, breathing on his neck, but every time he turned there was nothing there.

The woman hissed as he applied the neutralizing agent, her fingers twitching involuntarily. “Sorry,” Damian said, forcing his attention back to the delicate work. “This part always stings.”

“Are you all right?” she asked, and he could hear the concern in her voice. “You seem... distracted today.”

Damian managed a self-deprecating laugh, the kind he'd perfected over years of hiding his problems from patients. “Just tired. Late night, you know how it is.”

But privately, he was rattled by his inability to concentrate.

Healing required absolute focus, the kind of mental discipline that allowed him to channel pain without being overwhelmed by it.

Today, his thoughts kept scattering like startled birds, drawn to phantom sounds and chills in the air that shouldn't exist, to empty places where the world felt thinner, more fragile.

After the woman left with her palms properly bandaged and stern instructions to stay away from corrupted equipment, Damian locked the clinic door and leaned against it. His breath came in short, uneven gasps, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air.

The sharp crack of splintering wood shattered the evening quiet.

Damian's enhanced hearing caught the distinctive sound of his protective ward dissolving under official magic—a high-pitched whine that made his teeth ache.

Heavy boots thundered against his threshold, at least three sets, moving with the coordinated precision of trained enforcers.

“Time Exchange Authority!” a voice barked, crisp with bureaucratic authority. “Open this door immediately or we will breach the premises.”

Damian's heart hammered against his ribs. His fingers found the familiar weight of his walking cane, the carved handle worn smooth by decades of use. Not much of a weapon, but it would have to do.

The door exploded inward with a crash that sent splinters flying across the clinic floor.

Damian dropped into a defensive crouch as three figures burst through the wreckage, their boots crunching on broken wood.

The scent of official magic clung to them—ozone and copper, the metallic taste of authority backed by force.

“Damian Vale,” the lead enforcer announced, his voice carrying the particular smugness of someone who enjoyed having power over others. “You are under arrest for practicing unlicensed temporal medicine.”

“I heal people,” Damian said, rising slowly, his cane held loose but ready. “Nothing more.”

“Bullshit.” Heavy footsteps circled him, trying to flank. “We have reports of illegal paincraft, soulbinding materials, connections to the underground resistance.”

The first enforcer moved too close, his breathing harsh and confident. Damian could smell the man's sweat, hear the soft whisper of leather as he reached for restraints. Amateur mistake—getting within striking distance of someone desperate.

Damian's cane whipped up in a perfect arc, the carved handle connecting with what felt like a nose. Cartilage crunched wetly, and the enforcer screamed, hot blood spattering across Damian's face. The metallic taste filled the air as the man staggered backward, clutching his ruined features.

“Fuck! He broke my fucking nose!”

“Take him down!” the leader snarled.

Two sets of boots rushed him from opposite directions. Damian spun toward the sound of heavier breathing—a man trying to tackle him low. He drove his cane down like a spear, feeling it punch into soft stomach muscle. The enforcer doubled over with a wet gasp, and Damian brought his knee up hard.

The impact sent vibrations through his leg as it connected with something solid—chin or forehead. The man dropped like a sack of grain, his skull cracking against the clinic floor with a sound that made Damian's stomach clench.

“Stay down,” Damian growled, but his voice shook.

The third enforcer had circled behind him. Damian heard the whistle of something heavy cutting through air—a cudgel or baton. He threw himself sideways, feeling the weapon brush past his ear close enough to ruffle his hair.

Rolling across his scattered medical supplies, Damian's fingers found the handle of a bone saw. The surgical steel was cold and familiar in his grip, balanced for precision work. But precision could cut both ways.

The enforcer lunged again, his breathing ragged with exertion. Damian waited until the last second, then swept the saw upward. The serrated edge caught flesh and tore, drawing a scream that echoed off the clinic walls. Hot blood splashed across Damian's hands as the enforcer stumbled backward.

“You little bastard!” The man's voice was thick with pain and rage. “I'll fucking gut you!”

But Damian could hear the lie in it. The enforcer's breathing was too shallow, too quick. Fear-sweat had replaced confidence-sweat in his scent profile. He was hurt, maybe badly.

“Get out,” Damian said, his voice steadier now. The bone saw dripped steadily onto the floor, each drop audible in the sudden quiet. “Take your friends and get out of my clinic.”

“This isn't over,” the leader spat, but he was already backing toward the broken door. “We know what you are now. We know what you're capable of.”

Damian listened to them retreat—one man groaning as he was half-carried, another still cursing through what sounded like a mouthful of blood.

Their footsteps faded into the maze of Veil Row's narrow streets, leaving behind only the copper stench of spilled blood and the acrid bite of discharged magic.

He stood alone in his destroyed clinic, the bone saw trembling in his grip.

Medical supplies were scattered across the floor like broken teeth.

His desk was overturned, precious instruments crushed under heavy boots.

The protective wards his mother had woven into the walls flickered weakly, damaged but not destroyed.

Damian's hands began to shake in earnest as the adrenaline faded. He'd hurt them—badly. Maybe permanently. The enforcer he'd struck with his knee might have a concussion or worse. The one he'd cut... the saw had bitten deep, and there had been so much blood.

“Fuck.” The word came out as barely a whisper, but it felt like shouting in the ruined space. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He needed to ground himself, to anchor his awareness in familiar sensations.

Moving to his desk, he ran his fingers along its wooden edges, counting the familiar gouges and scratches that marked decades of use.

Here was the deep gouge from where he'd dropped a soul-needle.

There was the water stain from the night Corrin had knocked over a cup of tea while arguing about his stubborn refusal to charge wealthy patients.

But the grounding technique that had worked for twenty years failed him now.

Instead of calm, he felt a sudden wave of profound grief washing over him.

Not his grief, but something vast and ancient, too large for any mortal heart to contain.

For a moment, Damian wondered if he was losing his mind, or if something far older and colder had slipped beneath his skin.

His chest heaved with sobs that felt borrowed from someone else's eternity.

This wasn't the familiar ache of his own losses, the controlled sorrow he'd learned to manage.

This was raw, cosmic grief, the weight of countless endings witnessed and guided.

The loneliness of someone who had stood at the threshold between worlds for longer than civilizations had existed.

Damian found himself whispering to the empty room: “Who are you?”

He thought he was addressing his own fragmenting mind, asking the question of whatever stress or exhaustion was causing these episodes.

But somewhere deep in his core, something responded.

Not in words, but in a resonant ache that felt like recognition.

The sensation was both terrifying and oddly comforting, like finally hearing an echo of a call he'd been making his entire life.

Damian sat in the aftermath, his skin still tingling with residual emotion that clearly wasn't his own. Without thinking, he touched the spot on his forehead where his mother's soulbinding sigil rested. The mark was invisible to others, but always warm to his touch, a reminder of her final gift.

For the first time since childhood, it felt active.

The sigil pulsed with gentle heat, as if responding to some external presence, some compatible magic that recognized its purpose.

Somewhere in his memory, a half-remembered warning from his mother rose up: A soulbinding unfinished may yet find its other half.

But he’d never believed the old stories until now.

His mother had died trying to protect him with that mark, pouring her life force into a spell meant to shield him from the Time Exchange's attention.

What if the spell had done more than that? What if it had created a connection to something beyond the mortal world?