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I take them anyway, and Kylian is silent, watching me grab more than I can hold. Feverfew. Yarrow. Elderberry. Chamomile. Dandelions. Mullein. Aloe vera. Wild lettuce. Even valerian.

Over the years, one thing I have become grateful for is the knowledge of herbs my mother drilled into me as a child, knowledge that now lives in my hands the way magic does, inherited and instinctive.

I pull jar after jar from the shelves, building a collection in the crook of my arm, and Kylian follows me with the lantern so I can see. “Besides potatoes, onions, and tomatoes, the only thing you hold is herbs?”

“Root vegetables grow fast, and they’re hard to kill. Medicinal herbs are smaller, more sensitive. I didn’t want to waste anything irreplaceable if this fails, but I can’t treat those children with just potatoes and onions. If the herbs do take root, it means the toxicity has been removed enough for even more fragile plants later.”

I pause at a shelf near the back where larger containers hold tree seeds—apple, pear, cherry—and my hand hovers over them. The desire to plant orchards and berry patches and fields of wheat stretching to the cliffs is there, yet the risk isn’t worth it, at least not yet.

“These stay for now,” I say. “If these survive, we can try other seeds. If they don’t, nothing has been lost that can’t be tried again when I’m . . .” I let out a breath. “When I learn how to use my magic properly,” I admit, now feeling foolish for our argument earlier. Kylian says nothing but takes a few jars from me, tucking them in his arm.

I gather the last of my selections, a jar of rosemary seeds, another of thyme, and I turn toward the door. The jars and tins press against my ribs, each one carrying the weight of what it could become if I can get the ground to accept them.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“I need to prepare the soil.”

“They’ve already started. Eagan took over collecting all you had asked for. He’s been working all day while you were out.”

I nod slowly. “Then I guess we will go to the field.”

The fields are already full when we arrive, and the sight of it stops me at the edge of the tree line.

Wagons line the perimeter of the dead clearing, their beds piled high with the materials I demanded at the docks. Sand, pale and coarse, heaped in mounds that catch the moonlight. Seaweed in dark tangled masses, still wet from the tide that brought it in, its briny smell cutting through the persistent stench.

Humans are dumping barrels of ash onto the soil, like Eagan asked everyone on the island to clean their fireplaces and bring us the remnants. Others pour out sacks of crushed shells, turning the rough powder through the soil with garden forks and hoes.

The bearded fisherman from the dock stands beside the nearest wagon with his arms crossed, and when his gaze finds me, his expression is not hostile, but it’s clear he has no faith in what I’m doing.

Humans watch from the far edge of the clearing. A dozen of them, maybe more, clustered near the collapsed fence with their arms wrapped around themselves against the cold, their faces carrying the same fear and desperate hope I saw in the streets.

“How did Eagan organize this so fast?” I ask.

Kylian shrugs. “After you passed out, he went back to the docks with everyone he could gather.” He chuckles.

I can imagine the skepticism behind every exhausted, wary face surrounding me. They’re scared of what I can do and what my presence here means for them once word spreads.

“We should wait until everyone leaves. These people fear me enough,” I say watching them the same way they watch me.

“They won’t do anything.”

“They sure wanted to,” I mutter.

“But they won’t. They know your place is beside me and theirs is beneath you,” Kylian says, and I peek up at him.

“You didn’t hurt anyone, did you?”

His jaw clenches. “You don’t need to worry. They won’t try anything, and anyone who does will find a quick death.”

“You can’t just kill people because they are scared,” I mutter watching the men work along the furrows, churning the dirt with shovels and picks.

“Fear isn’t their mistake. It’s what they do with that fear that determines whether they live or die. When it comes to you, their lives hold no weight to me. So if being scared drives them to foolish decisions . . .”

His words leave a huge weight in the pit of my stomach, and I shake my head slowly, watching the people work.

He grips my chin and tilts my face to meet his. “How do you not see there is no line I would not cross for you? If the choice was you or the world, little mage, the only certainty I could give is that you would live.”

“I don’t want anyone dying because of me, Kylian.” His grip tightens when I try to pull away, and his gaze doesn’t waver.