The noise of the gathering fades as we put distance between ourselves and the settlement center. Ressa's steps are unsteady, her breathing still too quick, but she's moving. That's what matters.
I lead her past the residential area, away from curious eyes and well-meaning clan members who might stop to ask questions. There's a small clearing near the eastern edge of the settlement—quiet, secluded, with a fallen log that makes for decent seating and a view of nothing but trees.
Private. Calm. Exactly what she needs.
Ressa sinks onto the log without being told, her whole body trembling in a way she's probably not even aware of. I give her space, settling onto the ground a few feet away where she can see me clearly but doesn't feel crowded.
The shaking gets worse before it gets better. Her hands clench and unclench against her thighs, breathing ragged, eyes fixed on something I can't see. Memories, most likely. Whatever the Stonevein did to her that involved blood and marking and cruelty I can only guess at.
I wait.
Rushing her won't help. Neither will platitudes or false comfort or trying to talk her down. Panic doesn't respond to logic. It has to burn through on its own timeline.
So I sit, solid and present, a fixed point she can orient herself around when she's ready.
The forest settles around us—wind through the branches, distant birdcall, the creek running somewhere east. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. Nothing that screams or laughs or hurts.
Gradually, incrementally, her breathing starts to even out. The trembling lessens. Her eyes lose some of that glazed, faraway look, focus returning to the present moment.
I reach into the pouch at my belt, pulling out the flask I've taken to carrying when I visit her. The same bitter tea I leave at her cabin—valerian root, chamomile, a few other herbs that quiet the mind without dulling it completely.
"Here." I hold it out, not moving closer. Making her reach for it if she wants it.
She stares at the flask for a long moment before her hand extends, fingers still shaking as they close around the metal. The cap comes off with practiced ease. I was halfway expecting her to reject it like she normally does.
The first sip makes her wince. She's never liked the taste.
The second goes down easier.
By the third, some color has returned to her face.
I stay quiet, letting the tea do its work. The herbs will take the sharp edge off her panic, smooth out the worst of the adrenaline spike. Won't fix anything, but it'll make breathing less of a battle.
She drinks half the flask before lowering it, cradling the container between both palms like the warmth grounds her.
"I thought I could do it." Her voice comes out rough, barely above a whisper. "Thought if I just pushed through..."
"Pushing doesn't work with this."
"It should." Frustration bleeds through the words. "It's just paint. It's just spirals. It's not—" She cuts herself off, jaw clenching.
"Not what happened before," I finish for her.
She nods, not looking at me.
I lean back against the tree behind me, giving her space to speak or not speak as she chooses. The valerian should be kicking in now, loosening the tight grip of panic enough for words to come easier.
"You were right." The admission sounds like it costs her. "About me not sleeping. About being locked in that cabin."
"I know."
"You could be less smug about it."
"I'm not smug. I'm your healer. Knowing things about your condition is literally my purpose."
Her mouth twitches, not quite a smile but close enough. The tea's doing its job then.
She takes another sip before continuing, her voice steadier now but carrying a weight I recognize. The particular exhaustion that comes from fighting battles no one else can see.
