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The older vitalian bows to her. “The poor girl is disadvantaged enough. No need to worsen her chances.”

The girl’s arm flops free from her father’s hold, stained with blood.

The older vitalian bends and the father lets him take her pulse. I observe her pallor, the shaking of her fingers, the seeping blood.

“Barbed pherlies,” I murmur.

Florentius recoils, lip curling in disdain. “Such primitive methods? Barbaric.”

I meet his gaze and look away again. Primitive, yes. And yet... “It’s better than death.”

A tense silence hangs between us before the older vitalian slowly exhales and gives a reluctant nod of acknowledgement.

I scramble to my feet and rush towards the forest at the edge of Frederica’s estate. Roots snag at my boots, twigs pelt my face, and howling wolves have me shivering. The cave is dark. Sharp rocks bite into my hands, leaving streaks of blood on the walls, as I dig into compressed earth for the pherlies.

A little life depends on me.

I can’t lose another one.

I run back through the estate, past River’s epitaph, to the courtyard. I’m mud-caked, and breathless.

Florentius wrinkles his nose.

The older vitalian sends an akla to crush the pherlies, and I wash my hands. He leads me to the tent where they’ve moved the sick girl, carrying more herbs and clean bandages. The little girl’s father is anxiously clutching his daughter’s small hand. I kneel beside them. “Can I help your daughter live?”

He swallows hard, but finally nods.

I scrape mashed pherlies onto my fingers and force myself to focus on applying the paste to the deep wound on her chest.

Florentius steps forward as if to take over and halts, his mouth a grim line.

I continue smearing the root paste. But there’s a loud voice in my head.This feels clumsy. Crude.

The sound of Quin’s voice in my mind cuts through the thoughts, sharp and goading.Trembling already?

I tighten my jaw at the imagined challenge and pour myself into rising to it. This girl will live.

And soon she stirs with a weak cry for her father.Almosta success—her breaths, although growing stronger, are mixed with whines of pain.

Her father gasps, gripping her hand, and my chest seizes. It’s working.

But she suffers.

Such unsophisticated methods really are a last resort.

I hand the father a bowl of the pherlies paste, instructing him to administer it daily for a week. “She’ll wake properly soon.”

The murmurs among the gathered crowd are unmistakable—a par-linea, using rudimentary remedies. That girl might be lucky I’m here, but no other patient will have me.

I force a smile and ignore the whispers. In the next tent, Akilah is working hard; she hands me a cup of bitter tea and points to a chest of herbs. “I’ve made all your usuals. If you need anything more specific, it’s in there.”

Movement catches my eye, and I glance over to a nearby tree. Nicostratus is lounging against it, his lips curling into a faint, approving smile. My stomach hops—when did he arrive? Why? What is that look in his eye?

Questions for later. His eyes follow my movement, as though he’s used to it after watching me for a while. I shake off the little shivers and force my focus back to the task at hand.

After twenty minutes of crafting pain-relief spells, I have a basket full of neatly encapsulated remedies.

I carry it to the next tent and address the older vitalian. “The queue is long. These can offer temporary relief.”