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Kyra retrieves them from the corner where Jaro must have placed them. She brings the datapad to me, her touch gentle. “What do you need?”

“Activate the resonance imager. Power it... from the dwelling's core. Jaro can connect it.” My instructions come out in short, breathless bursts. “I need to confirm the molecular weight of the active compound.”

Jaro looks at the tangle of wires and connection ports with a warrior's confusion, but he follows Kyra's direction, his large hands surprisingly deft.

Neema watches the process, her arms crossed, her expression unchanging. “Your magic box will tell you how to heal?”

“It's not magic,” I say, trying to keep my voice patient. “It analyzes molecular structures. It shows me what I cannot see.” Itap the screen of my datapad, bringing up a rotating holographic model of the alkaloid I'd scanned from the tuber. “This is the poison. And in that vine... is the key to unlocking it.”

The scanner whirs to life. A tense, fragile collaboration begins in the low light of Jaro's dwelling. I am the scientist, directing from my sickbed. Kyra is my hands, her nimble fingers operating the delicate controls of my equipment. Neema is the herbalist, her ancient knowledge a necessary bridge.

“We need a solvent,” I say. “Distilled water, if possible. Heated to precisely forty degrees Celsius. No more, no less. We need to create an aqueous solution to draw out the saponins without denaturing them.”

Neema snorts. “We use the sacred spring for infusions. The water is already warm.”

“Is it pure?” I ask. “What is the mineral content? Any microbial life?”

She stares at me as if I've asked her to describe the color of air.

“It is life-giving water,” she says simply.

“Kyra, test it,” I order. “Use the hydro-spectrometer.”

The old healer watches, her lips a thin line of disapproval, as Kyra performs the scan. The results flash on my datapad. High in sulfur and iron. Unusable.

“It will contaminate the extraction,” I say. “We need to distill it. Jaro, the thermal plate and a containment flask. And a cooling coil.”

I guide them through the process of setting up a rudimentary still. It's clumsy, inefficient, but it works. While the water heats, I have Kyra carefully chop the vines, explaining the importance of increasing the surface area for the extraction.

“Now,” Neema says, her voice sharp as she points to the chopped vines. “The traditions say this plant must be paired with thek'tharrroot to prevent stomach distress. The two spirits work in concert.”

“Is that... synergistic?” I ask, intrigued despite my condition. “Does the root contain a buffering agent? An anti-emetic?”

“It calms the gut,” Neema says, as if that explains everything.

Interesting. A potential secondary compound for nausea.“Scan it, Kyra. Let's see what we're working with.”

We work for what feels like hours. My mind struggles to maintain focus as the toxin wages war on my body. I float in and out of coherent thought, my instructions punctuated by waves of pain and disorientation. Jaro never leaves my side. He is an anchor, his presence a steady, solid warmth in the swirling chaos of my failing biology. He wipes my brow, gives me sips of the precious, newly-distilled water, and his low, rumbling voice murmurs encouragement.

Finally, the extraction is complete. A small vial of clear, slightly viscous liquid. The antidote. My science, filtered through their knowledge.

“The dosage,” I whisper, my vision tunneling. “It has to be precise. Based on my body mass and the estimated quantity of toxin ingested... I need... twenty-seven milliliters. No more.”

Neema takes the vial. She looks at the small quantity of liquid, then at me. For the first time, I see not skepticism, but a flicker of professional curiosity. Of grudging respect.

“You are certain of this?” she asks.

I nod, my energy fading fast. “It's... it's the only variable I can control.”

She brings the vial to my lips. It is tasteless, odorless. I swallow the precious liquid, my body trembling with a mixture of hope and terror. Now, we wait.

The change, when it comes, is not dramatic. It's a slow, subtle retreat of the poison's tide. The fire in my veins banks to a low smolder. The crushing weight on my chest lessens, allowing me to take a full, deep breath for the first time in hours. The frantic pounding of my heart slows to a steady, rhythmic beat.

I feel the shift in the room as much as I feel it in my own body. The tense silence gives way to a collective, unspoken sigh of relief.

“The fever... it is breaking,” Neema says, her voice laced with an awe she cannot quite conceal. She places a cool hand on my forehead, her touch no longer clinical, but almost gentle. “How did your... box... know this?”

“It's not a magic box,” I manage, a weak smile touching my lips. “It analyzes molecular structures. The saponin is binding to the alkaloid, rendering it inert.”