"Where?"
"His shoulder." Dara. There, beside me, braided back, steady. "The other one—Liara—she's got it worse."
I look up. The woman who was staggering—Liara—is sitting against a tree, arm pressed to her ribs, face pale, sweat running down her temples. And the chicken wire still needs finishing on the coop—Liara first. "Keep pressure." I leave the unconscious wolf—Soren, someone said his name—and cross to Liara. "Move your arm. Let me see."
She does. Hissing through her teeth.
Arrow wound. Shaft's been broken off but the head is still inside, embedded deep, skin swelling around it. The edges going dark. Going gray.
My stomach drops.
"Is that poisoned? The arrow—was it coated?"
Liara's eyes widen. "I didn't—it happened fast—"
"The edges are graying." Five jars on my shelf. Five. One and a half for a treatment course, which leaves three and a half, which is—not enough, never enough—"Dara, I need the paste from my dwelling."
Dara doesn't question it. Goes.
"The arrowhead comes out first. It's going to hurt."
"I know."
"I mean really hurt. And I need you still."
"Just do it."
"Someone hold her shoulders."
A wolf I don't recognize moves behind Liara. I look at Liara's face. Scared. Hiding it badly.
"One—"
Don't wait. Dig into the wound, fingers finding the arrowhead, metal slick with blood, and she screams—raw, terrible—but the hands behind her hold and I keep going. Working the head loose. Careful not to push deeper.
"Almost. Two seconds—"
Free. Blackened at the tip. Coated in something dark and oily.
Moonbright. Weaponized.
Blood wells up and I press my palm over the wound. "Bandages. Now."
Pack the wound. Wrap tight. The gray at the edges is spreading—not fast but steady. Without paste she's got two hours before it hits her bloodstream.
"Dara!"
"Here." Two jars. I crack the first seal, scoop paste with two fingers, pack it directly into the wound.
Liara cries out.
"I know. I'm sorry. It has to be in the wound itself." Working fast—paste meeting blood meeting poison. The gray edges slow. Stop. Hold.
"It's working. Don't move for an hour."
"Wasn't planning on it." Breathing hard, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on her face.
Rhen's back with my kit. I take it, already turning—Soren, still breathing, the woman still pressing on his wound, his color holding—and the other one sitting to the side with a gash across his arm.
