"Ressa."
The voice cuts through the roaring in my ears, sharp and direct. Not threatening. Not mocking.
Falla.
I blink, the forest swimming back into partial focus. He stands a few feet away, not approaching but not retreating either. His expression remains neutral, clinical—the healer assessing a patient rather than judgment or pity.
"Four counts in," he says, his tone carrying the same matter-of-fact quality he uses when discussing wound care. "You remember."
My lungs burn. I try to pull air in but it catches, stutters, refuses to cooperate with what my body desperately needs.
"Four counts." Falla's voice stays level, a fixed point in the chaos. "In through your nose."
I force compliance, dragging oxygen past the constriction in my throat. One. Two. Three. Four.
"Hold it."
My chest screams in protest but I count silently, focusing on the numbers instead of the phantom sounds of pursuit that still echo in my ears.
"Four counts out."
The exhale shakes, unsteady and weak, but it happens. Air leaves my lungs. Makes space for the next breath.
"Again."
We repeat the pattern—I don't know how many times. Could be three cycles, could be thirty. Time loses meaning when panic has its claws in you, stretching seconds into eternities while simultaneously compressing everything into a single overwhelming moment.
Eventually, the forest stops spinning. The shadows return to being ordinary darkness between trees instead of hiding places for threats. My heartbeat slows from its frantic gallop to something closer to sustainable.
Falla reaches into his pack without moving closer, pulling out a familiar flask. The same one he had yesterday, filled with that bitter herbal mixture I still can't identify by taste alone.
"Drink."
He extends it toward me, arm outstretched so I don't have to close the distance. The gesture is deliberate—giving me control over the interaction, letting me decide when and how to accept help.
I take the flask with trembling fingers, uncapping it and bringing the opening to my lips. The first sip hits my tongue with that same sharp bitterness from yesterday, but underneath it there's something almost soothing. Something that settles the residual nausea churning in my gut.
"What is in this?" My voice comes out rough, scraped raw from the panic attack. "You've never said."
"Herbs." Falla looks unimpressed as I narrow my eyes. "Did you expect a detailed recipe?"
"Most healers like explaining their remedies."
"Most patients don't care about the explanation."
I take another sip, letting the liquid coat my throat and ease some of the tightness. "Fair point."
The silence between us feels less oppressive now, weighted with something other than my breakdown. Falla watches me drink, his assessment never quite clinical enough to be cold but never sympathetic enough to feel patronizing.
When I've finished half the flask, he nods toward the direction we came from. "We're heading back."
It's not a question. Not a suggestion. Just statement of fact, delivered in that blunt way that somehow makes decisions easier by removing the pressure of choice.
I should argue. Should insist we keep going, finish the challenge, prove I can handle this. But the exhaustion settling into my bones makes the prospect of continuing feel impossible.
"Okay."
We turn back toward the settlement, Falla setting a deliberately slow pace that accommodates my still-shaky legs, the ones that still ache constantly, without making it obvious he's compensating. The walk feels longer returning than it did going out, each step requiring conscious effort to maintain.
