The dirt is wrong. Not wrong wrong, just—dense. Packed. I've been digging for twenty minutes and my arms are already screaming because whoever lived here before me apparently walked on this exact patch of ground every single day for a decade. My knees are grinding into the hard earth and I should have brought something to kneel on. "You're not helping," I tell Nugget. She's wearing the sweater I made her last night. Couldn't sle ep— k ept staring at the ceiling and every time I closed my eyes it was bark against my back and his—so I made a chicken sweater. Normal coping. It's lopsided. One arm hole—wing hole?—is bigger than the other. She looks ridiculous, pink feathers poking out of gray wool, and she's currently pecking at the exact spot I need to dig next. "Move." She doesn't move. "Nugget. I'm trying to make a garden. You're standing on the garden." More pecking. She's found something. A bug, probably. A rock she thinks is a bug. The sweater bunches up around her neck when she bobs her head and I should fix that, should adjust the— His hands sliding up under my shirt— I shove the trowel into the dirt harder than necessary. "Right. Rosemary." Talking to myself. Normal. "Rosemary can go here. Yarrow by the stream, I saw some yesterday when I was—yesterday. Right. And the comfrey needs partial shade, so maybe over by the— Nugget, that's a rock, not food. That is a rock." She eats the rock. "Fine. Enjoy your rock. I’m sure that will feel great when it—" Footst eps behind me. I know whose footst eps those are. I know because I'm pathetic and because dirt has a sound and his boots hit different than everyone else's and I am not turning around. I'm digging. Very busy. Important soil work happening. "Rhen's going out past the creek tomorrow." Keer's voice at my back. "He'll take you if you want to look for wild herbs." "What time does he leave?" "Just after dawn." "K. I'll be ready." He doesn't walk away. He's right there. Three feet. Maybe less. The warmth of him at my back and the trowel needs to go de eper into this extremely important dirt right now. My hands have stopped moving. When did my hands stop moving? I shove the trowel down again.
"Your chicken is eating a rock." "She knows what she's about." A pause, then he walks away. Footst eps on dirt, then gone. My fingers ache on the trowel. The plot is maybe four feet by six feet, which isn't much, but it's something. Herbs for healing. Herbs for cooking. Something I built with my own dirt-caked hands in dirt that smells nothing like cedar and I'm not—the comfrey. The comfrey needs partial shade. Focus— "Okay." I sit back on my heels. "Okay. That's enough digging for now." Nugget clucks. "I'm not spiraling. I'm assessing soil composition." More clucking. I have never met a more judgmental chicken. "You're a chicken in a sweater. You don't get to have opinions about my mental state." I push myself up, knees popping loud enough that Nugget startles. My back hurts. My shoulders hurt from digging. My face still aches where the guy hit me—there's a bruise there now, purple-green, and people ke ep looking at it and not asking questions. Which is fine. I don't want questions. I want to dig a garden and not think about— "MELORI!" My head snaps up. The shout comes from the central clearing—loud, urgent, wrong. I'm already moving—dropping the trowel, leaving Nugget to her rock. "MELORI!" The clearing opens up and people are gathering, a tight cluster near the main fire pit. I'm shoving through bodies before I can see what's happening—elbows and shoulders, someone grabs my arm and I yank free, already pushing toward the center where— Keer. He's carrying a child. Small body limp against his chest, maybe six years old, blood soaking through a rough bandage on her arm. Her face is wrong. "Put her down. Now. Right here." He lowers her to the ground without arguing—and I'm already on my knees beside her, hands reaching for the bandage before he's finished laying her flat. "What happened?" "We found her past the creek." His hands are red to the wrist. He's not looking at me. "She wandered too far from the group." "When?" "An hour ago. Maybe less." I pull back the bandage and my stomach drops.
The wound is de ep—a slash across her forearm, jagged, rough blade—and the edges are already turning gray. Not healing gray. Dying gray. The flesh going dark around the cut, spreading outward in tendrils I know too well. "Moonbright. They're using moonbright on children now." The child's mother is pushing through the crowd, face twisted. "Is she—will she—" "She'll be fine. I need space. Everyone back up." They don't back up. They're wolves, they crowd. "Give her room." Keer's voice cuts through and bodies retreat. I'm checking the child's pulse—fast, too fast, her skin burning hot under my fingers. Fever's already setting in. "How long was she bleeding before you found her?" "Maybe twenty minutes. She was hiding." "Hiding?" "She ran after the attack. Hid in a hollow log. We found her when she stopped answering calls." Twenty minutes bleeding plus the run back. Poison's had time to spread, dig into her blood, start shutting things down. Hour? Less? "I need my supplies. The jars, the clay ones, from my dwelling. NOW." A young wolf takes off running. "Dara!" I spot her at the edge of the crowd. "Boiled water. Not stream. Go." "On it." She's already gone. "What's her name?" The gray has spread past the wound edge. "How old is she?" "Fenna. She just turned six." "Fenna. Hi, sweetheart." The gray's cr ept past the bandage edge. Farther than I want. "Does she bounce back fast from cuts? Scrapes, bruises —heals quick?" "Usually, yes, she's always—" "Good." Six years old. Moonbright on a blade swung at a six-year- old. My hands ke ep working. He's right beside me. Not in the way, so I ke ep working. The wolf returns with my supplies and I grab the jar—yank off the lid— Not enough. A third of a jar. Maybe less. I've been using it steadily—Kestria's wound, minor treatments, the scraped knee of a pup who fell off a rock— and I didn't realize how low it was because I was busy doing other things. Things that weren't inventory. Things that in volved bark and hands and— not now. Not now not now not now. "Melori." Keer's voice. Low. Calm. "I know." I don't look at him. "I see it." "Is there enough?"
"This wound needs a full jar. I have a third." I scoop paste onto my fingers. "So I'm going to make a third work." I turn to the mother. "Hold her shoulders. When I put this in, she's going to wake up screaming. She needs to stay still." "Screaming? But she's—" "It's the paste working. It hurts before it heals. Hold her down." "I can't hold my daughter down while she—" "You can and you will because the alternative is worse. Hold. Her. Shoulders." The mother drops to her knees. Her hands find her daughter's shoulders. "Legs." To Keer. "She's going to buck." His hands close around Fenna's ankles. Steady. I spread the paste into the wound. Fenna's eyes fly open and she screams—raw and high and terrible —and her body flails hard. The mother's crying now, saying her daughter's name over and over, and I ke ep working because stopping isn't an option, spreading the paste, scraping the jar for every last bit. "Shh, shh. I know." My voice drops soft. "I know it hurts. You're so brave, Fenna. Almost done." "Is it working?" The mother's voice breaks. "Please tell me it's—" "Give it a minute. Three more seconds of spreading and then we wait." I scrape the jar clean. My fingertip comes out with barely a smear. "There. That's everything." I sit back on my heels. The jar is empty. I set it on the ground and my hands are shaking. "Now we wait for the fever to break." I wipe my hands on my trousers, leaving green-brown streaks. "About an hour. Sometimes less." "An hour?" The mother's gripping her daughter's shoulders, knuckles white. "She has to be in pain for an hour?" "The fever has to spike before it breaks. That's how the paste works —it fights the poison, and the fever is the fight." I check Fenna's pulse again. Rapid but steady. "She's strong. She'll get through it." "You're sure?" "I'm sure." Dara returns with water. Sets it beside me without a word, then crouches next to the mother. "She's in good hands." Dara's voice is certain. "I've watched her work." The mother nods, tears streaming. Five minutes. The gray at the wound edges holds steady. Not spreading. Not retreating either. Not sure. Not sure at all. The paste is thin—thinner than I've ever spread it—and Kestria's wound had twice this amount and Kestria is a full- grown wolf with decades of healing behind her, and Fenna is six.
Keer hasn't moved. His hands are wrapped around her ankles, and he doesn't fidget, doesn't shift. Still. "Come on," I murmur. "Come on." "What should it look like?" Keer asks. Just to me. "The gray should be pulling back. Starting at the edges where the paste is thickest." "It's not." "I know it's not." "What does that—" "It means the paste is thin and it needs more time. It doesn't mean it's failing." I press my fingers to Fenna's forehead. Burning. "The fever's still climbing. That's right. That's what should be happening." Ten minutes. The crowd has thinned—people drifting away to wait at a distance, but the core group stays. The mother is praying, whispered words I don't recognize, something old that catches in her throat and starts over every time she loses her place. Keer's breathing is controlled beside me. My knees are screaming from the packed dirt. "There." I lean forward. "Look." The gray edge closest to the paste. Lighter. Just barely—a hair's width of flushed pink where dead gray had been. "Is that—" the mother starts. "It's working. Give it time." Slowly. Each check of her pulse, same answer. Too fast. Still too fast. But the gray retreats. The paste is working. Thin as it is, stretched past what it should be, it's working. Minute fifty-two. Her breathing shifts. The rigid muscles go slack under my hands. Her skin cools under my palm. "There." The word shakes coming out. "She's okay." The mother gathers Fenna into her arms. The child is crying— awake crying, hurting crying, but her eyes are open and she's reaching for her mother. "Ke ep the wound clean." I push myself up, knees screaming, palms flat on the ground. "Don't let her scratch at it. I'll check it tomorrow." "Thank you. I don't—thank you." "Dara, can you show her how to change the dressing?" "I know." Dara stands, touching the mother's elbow. "Come on. I'll show you." They leave. The crowd parts, disperses. Normal sounds return— voices, footst eps, a cooking fire somewhere. I should stand up. Walk away. Check on Fenna in an hour, wash the paste off my hands, figure out what comes next. I don't move. Keer doesn't either. Nugget appears at the edge of the clearing, sweater askew, pecking at something in the dirt. The empty jar is on the ground between us. I pick it up, turn it over, tip it toward the light. Nothing.
"That's it." "How much is left?" "What part of 'that's it' was unclear?" I hold up the jar. Tilt it. "None. Zero. I just used everything on that child. Everything I had left." "Where does moonbright grow?" he asks. "I know where it grows near my cottage." "Half a day there. Half a day back—" "A night on the trail." I wipe my forehead with my sleeve. "I know." "That's not an option." "Then help me find another one." I finally look at him. His eye catches mine and—focus on the flowers. "It grows in old-growth forest. Dense canopy, near water. Shaded ground. There has to be some in this territory—it's massive, and the ecology's right. I just don't know where." "Someone might know. I'll ask today." "Today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today." My voice is climbing again. Fantastic. "Because Fenna almost didn't have an hour, Keer. That wound needed twice the paste I gave her. If it had been any de eper, or if she'd bled longer—" "I understand." We stare at each other. His arm is close enough that the warmth bleeds through my sleeve. I look away first. "I'll ask tonight," he says. "If anyone's seen moonbright growing in the territory, I'll know." "And if they haven't?" "Then we plan the longer trip." Ugh. "We." "The pack needs the paste. You can't go alone." A night on a trail with him. Sle eping near—bedrolls. S eparate bedrolls. Supply list. I need to think about the supply list. Water, bandages, jars, the drying rack is too big to carry so I'd need a frame, a smaller frame, and— He's watching me. My neck is hot. "I should check on Fenna." I get my feet under me. "And wash up. And see if Bren's been changing his dressing because last time I checked he was using the same cloth days in a row, which is—actually that's a problem I can solve right now. I can solve that problem. I'll be in the healing area. Come find me when you know." "Melori." I stop. Don't turn. "The child is alive because of you." "I know." I walk.
The door of my dwelling is still warm from the afternoon sun when I push it open. The basket from yesterday is on the floor. I sorted them— blue pile, purple pile, yellow—but that's where I stopped. Left them in neat little piles and went to stare at the ceiling and not sle ep and make a chicken sweater and think about things I have no business thinking about. They're brown now. Wilted, curling in on themselves, useless. "Mel." I spin. Kestria's in the doorway, still favoring her healing side, braids pulled back. She looks at my face and st eps inside. "I heard about Fenna. Dara told me." "She's six." "I know." "The paste is gone, Kestria." "I know that too." She sits on my sle eping pallet, the only real seating, and pats the space beside her. "Sit down." "I can't sit down. I need to—wash my hands. Check on Bren. Inventory whatever's left of my supplies, which is nothing, it's all nothing —" "Mel. Sit." I sit. My legs fold under me and my back hits the wall and my hands are drying with paste in the creases of my knuckles. "The paste was thin," I say. "Way too thin. It took fifty-two minutes for the fever to break. Usually it's forty. Thirty-five with enough paste." "But it broke." "This time. What about next time? What about when it's a de eper wound, or two wounds, or someone out on patrol who can't get back fast enough?" I sound like a teakettle with opinions. "I have nothing, Kestria. Empty jars. Dead flowers. I'm supposed to be the healer and I have nothing to heal with." "So we find more." "Where? I know one field. One. Near a cottage I can't go back to because there could be more very rude people watching it." "You won't go alone." "Everyone ke eps saying that. You, Keer—" "Keer said that?" "It came up. Logistically." I scrub my face with my hands. Dirt and paste against my eyelids. She's quiet for a beat too long. I know that quiet. "Don't." "I didn't say anything." "You were about to. He's asking around if anyone's seen moonbright in the territory." "Good.”
"Good? Kestria. Do you really think ANYONE here has been paying attention to wildflowers while they were out hunting rabbits?” "Some of them might have. Rhen's sharp. He notices terrain." She pauses. Watching me. "So. You talked to Keer." "About paste." "And?" "And what?" "Nothing." She's picking at a thread on my blanket. Not looking at me. Then looking at me. "Your face is purple." "It's purple-green. Very colorful. Went looking for colorful flowers. Brought back a colorful face." I hold up the empty jar. "That's everything?" "That's everything. And I can't make more without flowers. The processing takes time—harvesting, drying, grinding, mixing. Even if someone walks in the door right now with an armful of moonbright, I'm days from usable paste." "What about the flowers in the basket?" I glance at the floor. "Dead. I sorted them but I never started processing. I was—" I stop. "They're dead. Plus, they aren’t medicinal. They’re just pretty." "Are all of them dead?" I lean over and pick up the basket. Crumble a petal between my fingers. Brown dust. Nothing. But underneath—I push past the top layer, the wilted mess, and— "The purple ones." I'm already pulling them out, hands working faster than my brain. "Some of them. The ones at the bottom of the pile, they were compressed, less air exposure. These might—" The petal between my fingers. Pale purple edging dark. My breath catches. "These are moonbright. I was grabbing everything purple in that field and I picked actual moonbright without—Kestria, hand me that cloth." She passes it over. I spread the surviving petals out—seven, maybe eight intact moonbright petals. A handful of blue fragments that aren't, but the purple ones are. "Is that enough?" "For a full jar? No. Not even close." I arrange them carefully, already calculating drying times and ratios. "Maybe a quarter jar." I sit back. "Better than nothing. Barely." "But better." I'm already planning the processing. Need the mortar. Need to check the wax seals. Need drying time, so tomorrow at the earliest, and even then—"This buys me one treatment. One. And the next attack could be tomorrow." "Then we find the rest tomorrow." "If Keer hears anything."
She reaches over and takes my hand. Squeezes. Her grip is warm and steady. "Fenna's alive, Mel. You did that on a third of a jar." "With zero margin." "Still breathing, though. Fenna. Because of you. So stop acting like you failed when you're literally covered in the stuff that saved her." I look at the petals spread across the cloth. Purple and blue against gray fabric. "I need to process these." I pull my hand free. Hands need to be moving. "Before they dry out any further. And I need to check on Fenna. And yell at Bren about his dressing. And—" "And you need to eat." "I ate." "When?" "There was bread." "When, Mel?" "This morning. Before dawn. I think." "Ugh, Mel!" She stands, pulling a face when her side protests. "I'll bring you food. You process the petals." "You don't have to—" "I'm bringing you food. You're going to eat it. This is not a negotiation." She points at the petals. "Save those. I'll be back." She's gone, and I'm alone with a handful of purple petals and an empty shelf and Nugget waddling through the door in her lopsided sweater, trailing dirt from the garden plot. "Nice of you to show up," I tell her. She ignores me. Waddles two st eps. Heaves up the rock she ate this morning and ke eps walking. I stare at the rock. "Cool."