The wolf I'm stitching—older, graying, gash across his collarbone—has gone still under my hands.
"He says—" Dara's voice flat. Holding herself flat. "Send her out and we'll talk. Keep her and we burn you all."
The wolf under my hands looks up at me.
I look back down at his collarbone.
"Hold still. You keep twitching and I'll stitch your neck shut."
He holds still.
My hands are shaking now. I work through it. Stitch. Knot. Cut. The needle goes through skin and out and back through and the sound of distant fighting is the same and Dara is still listening past me into the trees and somewhere out there a man I cannot see is asking for me by a word I do not deserve.
"Done."
"Mel." Dara, low. "Are you—"
"I'm working."
"Mel."
"Don't."
Next wound. Slash across someone's back—deep but clean, paste and pressure, go. A woman missing three fingers, still snarling, holding her hand against her chest.
"Let me see."
"I'm fine."
"You're missing fingers."
"I'll grow them back."
"You will absolutely not grow them back. Sit down and let me wrap it before you bleed out."
She sits. Grudging. I wrap the stumps and tie off the bandage with my teeth because both hands are occupied and the cloth pile is running low—should've torn more strips, always need more strips than you think—
"Done. Don't punch anything for a week."
"There's a battle."
"Then punch with the other hand."
Dara goes still.
"Pots." Her voice flat. "They threw the pots."
Shit.
"Get the steam stations ready. Now—"
"CLAY POTS!"
The shout cuts through the trees. Seconds behind Dara. Wolves staggering back already, retreating through the trunks toward the clearing, shifting mid-stride. Coughing. Eyes streaming. Skin going gray.
"FALL BACK FROM THE SMOKE!"
Keer's voice. From deep in the trees. The hum spikes sharp under my ribs—he's still up, still moving, still in command—and the order ripples out through the forest, wolves veering wide of the smoke clouds, breaking the engagement, retreating back through the trees.
