"I was trying to keep it stable," I muttered defensively, even though he couldn't understand me. "It's called compression. It's a legitimate medical technique."
Daska gave me a look that transcended all language barriers. It was the universal expression of every medical professional who'd ever dealt with a patient who thought they knew better. I'd seen it on doctors, nurses, paramedics, and now apparently it translated perfectly across twenty-five thousand years of human evolution.
"Don't look at me like that," I said, but my mouth twitched despite myself.
He shook his head slowly, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like the Ice Age equivalent ofidiots, the lot of them, and reached for his healer's pouch. Fresh poultice first, the same dark, bitter-smelling paste from last night, applied with fingers that were impossibly gentle for their size. He spread it across the wound in thin, even layers, working from the edges inward, and the numbness followed his touch like a blessing. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding, my shoulders dropping as the worst of the pain receded.
Then he rewrapped the leg. Properly this time, with strips of soft leather padded with dried moss, each layer overlapping the last with the precision of someone who'd done this ten thousandtimes. He left enough room for the swelling without letting the bandage shift, and when he finished, he sat back and looked up at me with one eyebrow raised.
See? That's how you do it.
"Show-off," I muttered, but there was no heat in it. My leg already felt better than it had all morning. Still painful, but manageable. The kind of pain you could walk through if you had to.
Daska glanced up at me, clearly not understanding the words but responding to my tone. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he gestured to the meat in my hand.
“Ok, ok,” I said, and bit into the dried meat to avoid further interrogation.
It was good, salty and rich, with a smoky depth. Tough enough to require serious commitment from my jaw, but the flavour was extraordinary. Real food, from real animals, prepared by people who understood preservation as a matter of survival rather than a lifestyle trend. I chewed slowly, savouring it, and Daska nodded his approval, then moved away to help with Dev's travois, steadying him as two of the wolf shifters lifted it with casual strength, positioning themselves at front and back, as they had before. Not for the first time, I gave silent thanks they’d found us.
"Ready?" Nathan appeared beside me, Megan a half-step behind him. He looked more rested, focused, back in expedition-leader mode, much better than he had the day before. The man whose girlfriend was currently studying me like I was a specimen she'd rather leave behind.
"Ready," I said.
Megan's gaze flicked to my leg, then away. "We need to maintain pace. The wolves are likely taking us to their camp, and thankfully, it’s in nearly the same direction we were heading, but we can't afford delays."
Translation: Don't slow us down.
"I understand."
"Do you?" Her voice stayed perfectly pleasant, but something cold moved beneath it. "Because yesterday was... difficult. For everyone."
Nathan touched her arm, a brief gesture that spoke of familiarity. "Megan…"
"I'm just saying we need to be practical." She smiled at me, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "This isn't a rescue mission. It's mutual survival. We all need to pull our weight."
Meaning I wasn’t. "I know what this is."
The wolf alpha's low whistle cut through the tension. The pack began moving, falling into formation with the same unspoken coordination they'd used to break camp. Nathan and Megan moved toward the front, their body language suggesting they intended to walk with the leaders.
I hung back, letting the group flow around me. Better to stay out of the way. Better to...
Daska materialized beside me again, matching my pace without comment. On my other side, one of the younger wolves took up position with an easy grin that suggested this was perfectly normal.
Great. Babysitters.
But I was too tired to argue, and the company was welcome. My leg ached with each step, the wound pulling and throbbing despite the tight wrapping. The cold bit through my inadequate clothes, making everything harder.
One foot in front of the other. Don't slow us down.
The landscape around us shifted gradually as we traveled, the dense forest giving way to more open terrain. Snow-covered hills rolled ahead, leading toward distant mountains that looked impossibly far away. The sun climbed higher, providing light but little warmth.
My world narrowed to the rhythm of walking—step, breathe, ignore the pain, repeat.
Daska pressed something into my hand with a frown. A waterskin. “Aru,” he said.
I looked down at the waterskin, then back up at him and took a quick drink.
“Aru?” I asked. Daska nodded, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled again.
