"Sit. Let me see that."
"I'm fine."
"Everyone who says that is lying. Sit."
He sits. Young. Twenty, maybe. Trying hard not to look shaken. I clean the gash, check the edges—no gray, no poison, just a clean cut. Wrap it tight.
"What happened out there?"
"Patrol." He's gripping his bandaged arm with his other hand, knuckles white. Not from pain. From the effort of holding still. "Six of them. Armed. We only saw four and then two more came from behind. Arrows."
"Poisoned arrows?"
"Liara went down first. Then Soren." His eyes cut toward the bound human, then away. Fast. "He was with them. Guiding them. Showed them where our patrols run. Knew the route. Knew where we'd be."
A guide. Someone feeding them information about patrol routes. Either they've been watching long enough to learn patterns or—
"How long have they been watching?"
"Don't know. But he knew things." Still gripping the arm. "Shift changes. Which paths we use at dawn versus dusk."
Weeks. At least weeks.
Focus. The wounded are stable. Soren's breathing is wet but not worsening—bruised lung, not punctured. Rest and binding and monitoring. Need to check the rib wrap on the left side, might be too loose.
I sit back on my heels. My hands are red to the wrist.
"You need anything else?" Dara, back at my side.
"Someone on Soren for the next four hours. Any change in his breathing, new bleeding, come get me immediately."
"I'll stay."
"And Liara—four-hour reapplication. I'll show you the amount before I go."
"Show me now."
I open the jar. Two fingers, packed deep, covering the wound edges where the gray was worst. "This much. No more.Pack it in, don't smear. The paste needs contact with the poisoned tissue."
"I've watched you do it."
"Watching and doing are different. Get it wrong and she loses the limb."
Nothing on her face moves. "Show me again."
I show her again. She watches with those sharp eyes. She'll get it right. She's good.
The human prisoner is watching me.
Has been the whole time, apparently. Through the extraction, the paste, the orders. Head tilted, blood drying on his forehead, mouth set in contempt.
I wash my hands in the water someone's brought—blood swirling pink then clear—and Keer's here now. Standing at the edge of the group.
When did he get here?
Every wolf in the clearing goes still. Attention shifting. The air tighter, charged, and I know what's coming. My hands should be wringing bandages but they're hanging at my sides and I'm watching the way he holds his weight, feet planted, shoulders loose. Ready.
I lose count of the bandage strips I've already used. Had the number a second ago. Gone.
