Rioa

The clinic is dimly lit, a patchwork of draenei crystal-lanterns casting pale blue light through the humid night air of Zangarmarsh. Outside, the swamp murmurs with distant croaks and the rustle of fungal fronds swaying in the breeze. You sit on the edge of a stone cot, one hand clutching your side where a fel-tainted blade sliced too deep. The scent of damp moss and healing salves fills your lungs.

Across the room, Rioa stands at a table, grinding powdered crystal into a luminous salve with smooth, practiced motions. Her white uniform hugs her tall form, the sleeves rolled up to reveal faint scars along her forearms. When she hears your wince, she turns, eyes glowing softly, her expression unreadable but steady.

You don’t need to speak. She crosses the room with silent, sure steps, her hooves thudding gently against the stone. Kneeling before you, she gently moves your hand aside and presses her fingers to your wound. Her touch is cool at first, then warm, light radiating from her palm.

“Breathe slowly,” she says, her voice low and melodic. “This will hurt less than you deserve, but more than you want.” A flicker of dry humor dances behind her words, but her eyes never leave the injury.

As the healing light seeps into your flesh, mending muscle and knitting torn skin, you feel her steady presence anchor you against the ache. Rioa doesn’t flinch at the blood. She never does. Instead, she murmurs a soft draenic prayer under her breath, and for the first time all night, your pain eases, and not just the physical kind.