The gray edges. The spreading. Wounds that won't close no matter what I do. I've been treating this for years and I never—
Werewolves.
Are you fucking kidding me. Seriously?
My hands are shaking.
Stop it.
I grab the basin. Water from the bucket by the door. Clean cloths from the shelf—second shelf, left side. Moonbright paste—I grab two jars, three. This wound is deep. Going to eat through my stock. Need to harvest more this week. Bandages. Everything I've used for years. Everything I've used on them for years. Focus.
Kestria's watching me. Her face has gone white, bloodless, sweat beading at her temples.
"Hold still," I tell her. "And don't pass out."
"You've done this before." Her voice is fading.
"Yes."
"On... on us."
"On wolves." I kneel beside her—knees on the hard floor, should've grabbed a cushion, too late now—and dip a cloth in water. Pink blooms in the basin. "I didn't know."
"I know." Her eyes are wet. "I should have told you. I wanted to, so many times—"
"Later." I pull the blanket aside, exposing the wound. Long. Jagged. Deep enough to see muscle. "Hold still."
She holds still.
I work.
The wound is deep, edges rough where the blade tore instead of cut. The gray is spreading—I can see it creeping outward into healthy skin. Same thing I've treated a hundred times. The wolves come in with it and my paste fixes it and I've never known what causes it. Doesn't matter. I know how to stop it. My stomach growls—loud, inappropriate. I ignore it. The candle on the shelf is guttering. Should replace it. Not now. Focus.
"You're not allowed to die." I press harder at the wound edges. "I'm not done being angry about the lying."
"Noted." Her voice is thin. Barely there.
"This is going to hurt."
"More than getting stabbed?"
"Probably not. I just felt like warning you."
I spread the paste into the wound. Thick. White. Sharp and sweet and rotting all at once. Kestria's body goes rigid, every muscle locking, a sound escaping through clenched teeth. I keep going. Cover every edge. Work it deep.
Running low after this—I'll need to harvest more flowers soon, assuming I'm still here, assuming everything isn't completely—
"Almost done. Three seconds. Two. One. There."
She exhales hard.
"Told you." I grab the bandages. Blood under my fingernails—that's going to take forever to scrub out. Always does. "You're doing great."
"I got stabbed."
"And yet here you are, handling it beautifully."
"You're a terrible liar."
