Koran now served as Senior Anatomist at St. Luke’s Church Hospital, the largest ecclesiastical medical institution in Hagian.

  The hospital complex dominated an entire square within the New Town District of Hagian.

  Its white stone walls and ornate adornments spoke to the empire's new modernity and its every growing prosperity.

  It had been commissioned just thirty years earlier at the direction of the previous Duke as part of a broader effort to further modernize the province and bind it more closely to imperial standards.

  Funding had come from private donations from wealthy merchant families seeking both prestige and piety, allocations from the provincial budget, and substantial support from the Church itself.

  Before its construction, medical care in Hagian had been fragmented. In the century and three-quarters since the Empire absorbed the city, small clinics had still appeared organically with herbalists operating out of storefronts, while retired legion medics offering bone-setting services and charitable infirmaries attached to minor chapels had joined them.

  These small clinics had done what they could with limited tools and uneven training, but it had become increasingly inadequate as the city's population had grown.

  St. Luke’s changed that by introducing the latest in imperial medical understanding that was found in the more developed and cosmopolitan west of the empire.

  Thus, to stand at its head as Senior Anatomist was no small distinction, and the title had not come easily.

  Despite the growing demand for anatomists across the Empire especially in major cities where everyday accidents, monster encounters, and dense populations strained medical services the path to mastery was long and deliberately restrictive.

  All medical practitioners began formal study around the age of sixteen, entering either a university or Church-sponsored academy. There they spent a minimum of two years immersed in the foundational studies.

  Examinations were very rigorous and failure was common.

  Upon completion, a student did not become a physician outright. Instead, they were granted a journeyman’s license in medicine which was a provisional credential allowing supervised practice. For several more years, they apprenticed under a recognized master under whom they assisted in various surgical procedures.

  Only after demonstrating consistent competence and receiving formal endorsement could they petition for independent licensure from their hospital.

  The rank of Senior Anatomist placed Koran on par with a guild master.

  Within medical circles, it signified not only technical mastery but also administrative authority. He oversaw surgical protocols, mentored apprentices, approved complex procedures, and liaised with both Church officials and provincial authorities with his word in the hospital being final.

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  He was acknowledged as one of the most skilled medical practitioners in the province, and by extension, among the more accomplished in the Empire.

  That he achieved such status before the age of forty was considered impressive.

  It had required relentless discipline and years of study, however, it would have been dishonest to claim that effort alone paved his way.

  His noble birth, though modest, had opened many doors. Letters of recommendation were easier to secure when one carried a recognizable surname after all.

  A more plebeian candidate of equal talent might have faced additional barriers from financial strain and having fewer connections thus receiving slower recognition.

  That morning it was his day off and he was enjoying a relaxing morning at home.

  The sunlight filtered warmly through his parlor windows giving the room a nice soft warmth.

  Koran sat in his favorite armchair, spectacles low on his nose, reading a recently copied anatomical treatise from another anatomist.

  Across from him, his wife Marienne sat comfortably with a basket of yarn at her feet, crocheting with practiced ease. His brief glances told him it was a religious scene she was creating.

  Overall, it was an ordinary, peaceful morning which he treasured deeply.

  Marienne glanced up at him occasionally, smiling faintly when he made small approving noises at particularly well explained passages in the text.

  He would read a line aloud now and then, explaining some refinement in surgical stitching or a clever method of rib stabilization.

  She listened with indulgent patience just enjoying his presence. Both of their children were in school that day, so they enjoyed the unusual experience of it just being the two of them.

  However the domestic tranquility was soon interrupted by a frantic knocking on the door, the heavy blows rattled the front door hard enough to make the door tremble.

  Koran looked up sharply while Marienne’s crochet hook paused mid-loop.

  The maid hurried from the kitchen, muttering in confusion, and opened the door.

  Cold air swept briefly into the hallway along with the frantic voice of a boy.

  Koran rose halfway from his chair before the maid could report who it was.

  The boy in question was perhaps twelve or thirteen and very thin wearing the plain brown uniform of the church orphanage.

  The hospital frequently employed the older orphans for messenger work, laundry duty, and other minor tasks.

  This one was gasping for breath, doubled over with his hands on his knees.

  “Slowly,” the maid urged trying to calm the poor boy who nearly out of breath. “What is it?” she asked worriedly.

  “I…” The boy sucked in more air desperate to catch his breath. “I need…the Lord Doctor… miss,” he finally got out amidst his breathing trouble.

  Koran was already striding into the hallway and had overheard the boy.

  “I am here,” he said firmly. “Speak young man.”

  The boy straightened, eyes wide with urgency and something else that was strange, Koran saw fear in the boy's eyes.

  “The daughter of Duke Willowvale is in critical condition,” he blurted. “They’ve brought her to St. Luke’s. Father Anselm says…says you must come immediately.”

  For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed.

  Duke Willowvale was the provincial duke and likely the wealthiest man in this part of the Empire.

  It was no wonder Father Anselm had sent for Koran personally.

  If word spread that the duke’s daughter had been treated by anyone other than the hospital’s senior anatomist, it would be seen not merely as an insult to the ducal household but also as dangerous negligence.

  In the worst interpretation, it could even be construed as attempted murder should anything go wrong with the girl’s treatment.

  Even if the physicians had acted with the best of intentions.

  Thus, Koran did not ask further questions even though he was curious as to what could have happened.

  He simply began to move as quickly as possible like a man possessed.

  He left his dropped book where it lay open on the armchair as he stepped back into the parlor just long enough to lean down and press a quick, firm kiss to Marienne’s cheek.

  “I may be late getting back my love,” he said quietly.

  Her eyes searched his face, reading the gravity there. She nodded once.

  “Go,” she said, “I know it's urgent”.

  He crossed the hallway in three long strides, retrieved his well-worn leather doctor’s bag from the side table, and shrugged into his coat.

  “Let the boy in and give him water and some food before sending him back”, he said to the maid as he walked out of his house.