"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 keep 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 thanI'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.
