As the last of the goblins disappeared into the forest, the village transformed from battlefield to infirmary. The wounded groaned and whimpered while those unharmed searched for missing loved ones.
"Fazio, bring clean water," Divo called, kneeling beside a villager with a gash across his thigh. "Damiano, tear these into strips."
I took the offered linen and began tearing it into bandages, my small fingers working methodically. The cleric's hands glowed with a soft white light as he worked, channeling mana into the worst wounds.
"Hold this tight against the wound," Divo instructed, guiding my hands to press a cloth against a woman's bleeding arm. "Firm pressure until the bleeding slows."
I followed his instructions carefully, watching how he cleaned wounds, applied salves, and wrapped bandages. Fazio worked alongside us, his face grim but determined as he fetched supplies and helped position patients.
