Chapter 20: Chapter 20: Blind Spots

The day before, after Keira left Darien’s study.

Darien watched from his study window as Keira’s small figure retreated down the tree-lined path of his estate before she vanished beyond the gate. Satisfaction settled warm in his chest—not the triumph of crushing an opponent, but the more subtle pleasure of a negotiation concluded to mutual advantage.

She would get her help and he would get access to her skills and, more importantly, to that damned sleep tincture that could revolutionize field surgery. The mandrake preparation and its proper use was worth everything on its own. And she’d agreed to teach it.

Well played on both sides, he thought, turning from the window.

He moved to his desk and poured himself another measure of wine—a decent vintage from the southern provinces, before the war had disrupted the trade routes. The meeting had gone longer than expected, and he had a stack of reports waiting for his attention. Troop movements, supply requisitions, intelligence from the border. The usual machinery of war that ground forward whether he watched it or not.

Darien settled into his chair and reached for the first report, but his hand paused halfway there.

No man in this field will work for a… girl. You know this.

You also know that nobody hires women in this trade. There are none that have learned.

Her words echoed in his mind, sharp and clear. He’d heard them, of course—had built his counter-offer around them. But now, in the silence after her departure, they resonated differently.

There are none that have learned.

He set down his wine glass with more force than intended.

Of course there were none who had learned. Because no one taught them. Because it had always been that way. Because—

Darien stood abruptly, pacing to the window and back. His mind, trained to find inefficiencies and exploit overlooked advantages, was suddenly turning its analysis inward with uncomfortable precision.

How many times had he reviewed medical corps reports and noted the chronic understaffing? How many requisitions had he signed for physicians, knowing full well they were a limited resource being consumed by the war? His own garrison was down three medical officers—one dead from camp fever, two transferred to field hospitals where the need was more desperate.

And all the while, half the population sat completely untapped.

You idiot, he thought savagely. You absolute idiot.

He wasn’t blind to convention when it suited him. He’d restructured supply lines over the objections of officers who’d been doing things “the traditional way” for twenty years. He’d promoted based on competence rather than birth, earning himself enemies among the nobility who thought positions should be inherited rather than earned. He’d built an intelligence network that operated in ways that made the old guard clutch their pearls and mutter about propriety.

But this? This blindingly obvious waste of potential had been sitting right in front of him, and he’d never questioned it.

Women couldn’t fight. That much he knew to be true—not from charts or studies, but from the simple reality of watching them move through the world. They were smaller, more delicate. The physical brutality of combat would break most of them. Even the rare exceptions who might have the will and skill would lack the raw strength to march in armor, to swing a longsword hour after hour, to survive the bone-crushing impact of a shield wall.

But it was more than that, if he was honest with himself.

The image rose unbidden: a woman in his unit, cut down in battle. The sound she’d make. The blood. And worse—what it would do to the men around her. Soldiers he’d trained to fight as a unit, suddenly breaking formation because every instinct screamed at them to protect rather than advance. Good men freezing because they’d been raised from birth to shield women from violence, now forced to watch them die.

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It would destroy unit cohesion. Create hesitation in moments that demanded absolute commitment. The guilt alone would be poison—men blaming themselves for failing to protect, even when protection was impossible.

No. Women had no place on the battlefield. That wasn’t prejudice or tradition. That was practical reality wrapped in moral imperative.

But physicians didn’t fight. They needed steady hands, meticulous attention to detail, the ability to learn and retain complex information.

The thought stopped him mid-pace.

Nothing about those requirements demanded a cock.

Darien returned to his desk and sank into his chair, staring at the reports without seeing them.

Keira was exceptional—he’d be a fool to deny that. The girl had surpassed her own father, and James spoke of her abilities with something close to awe. Her innovations with the mandrake tincture, the infection cure, her diagnostic instincts—those weren’t just competent. They were brilliant.

But here was the thing: he didn’t need brilliant.

He needed competent. He needed people who could follow procedures, clean wounds properly, recognize common injuries, assist during surgeries. The military medical corps wasn’t looking for geniuses to revolutionize medicine—they needed reliable hands to keep soldiers alive.

And if one exceptional woman could rise to brilliance when given the chance, how many merely competent ones were sitting in the city right now, never given the opportunity to be even that?

Midwives, herbalists, mothers—already healing without recognition. Meanwhile his corps bled physicians, the system wasting half its talent because ‘it has always been this way.’

How could he be so blind. The sheer waste of it offended him more than he’d expected.

Darien stood and moved to the door, opening it to find his adjutant stationed in the hallway—Lieutenant Gerard, a competent man in his thirties who’d proven himself excellent at translating Darien’s strategic visions into executable orders.

“Gerard. I need you.”

The lieutenant entered. “My lord?”

“I want a recruitment call put out immediately. Today.” Darien began pacing again, his mind racing ahead to logistics and implementation. “We’re looking for women interested in medical training. Midwives, herb women, anyone with healing experience or the aptitude to learn.”

Gerard looked at him a second too long—the only sign of surprise he allowed himself. “Women, my lord?”

“You heard correctly.” Darien’s tone sharpened. “We’re chronically understaffed in medical services while sitting on an untapped labor pool. I want it corrected.”

“Yes, my lord. What terms should I offer?”

“Real pay—standard military rates for medical assistants to start, with advancement based on competence. Real training under our existing physicians. And make it clear these are official military positions, not charity.” He paused, considering the political angles. “Frame it as supporting roles. No one goes near combat. Garrison work, field hospitals, medical instruction. We need to manage the optics carefully.”

“How many are we looking to recruit initially?”

“Start with twenty. If it works, we expand. I want them processed, evaluated, and assigned within the week.”

“The existing medical staff may have… opinions, my lord.”

“The existing medical staff will follow orders or find themselves reassigned to less comfortable positions.” Darien’s voice carried the absolute certainty of someone who’d never had his authority seriously challenged within his own command. “Any physician who can’t handle working alongside a competent woman is a physician I don’t need.”

“Understood, my lord. Anything else?”

Darien hesitated, then shook his head. “That’s all. See it done today.”

The lieutenant saluted and left, already moving with the purposeful stride of a man with clear orders to execute.

Darien stood alone, the revolutionary thrill of the idea already giving way to the tedious reality of signing it into law. Gerard would be back with the first decrees within the hour, and he was nothing if not thorough.

Still, his gaze remained fixed on the world outside the window. What else had he missed? What other “traditions” were really just inefficiencies he’d never thought to question?

The thought unsettled him in a way that enemy troop movements never could.

His gaze drifted to the corner where Keira had stood, trying so hard to maintain her dignity while asking for help she clearly hated needing.

A smile touched his lips as he remembered his own performance. Any brute could intimidate; it took artistry to unmake someone with calculated indifference. A clean, elegant victory.

And yet, the thought soured almost as soon as it formed. The satisfaction was a trap. While he had been admiring his own cleverness in handling a single, flustered girl, he had remained utterly blind to the systemic failure she represented. His own brilliance, the very thing he prided himself on, had created the blind spot.

The personal victory felt hollow now, almost embarrassing—a child’s game compared to the strategic opportunity he had nearly missed. The girl herself was a simple problem, easily solved. But the flaw in his own perception that she had accidentally illuminated… that was a far more serious matter.

And he found himself suddenly, intensely curious about the anomaly who had exposed it.

She probably didn’t even know it yet. Would have no idea that by tomorrow, her garrison work would involve training the first wave of women officially entering military medical service. That her struggle to find help would cascade into something larger.

The irony was not lost on him.