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That answer I can give.

Fiona’s fingers return to my pulse. “Neither am I.”

Her honesty should alarm me. Instead, it clears the false certainty from the room. She will examine what she knows rather than obey my fractured memories as commands.

Heat gathers near my feet despite the closed brazier. The chamber retains warmth within its stone and heavy hangings. My pulse changes under Fiona’s hand, growing faster while my breaths remain shallow.

I need cold.

I form the Causadurn Ridge at dawn. Snow scours black rock. Wind pours through the pass. Each breath cuts clean and sharp. Frost gathers along the iron rails outside Morwen’thir.

I force the mountain air through the connection.

Fiona inhales sharply. Her gaze flicks toward the windows.

“Cold.”

Relief moves through me.

She crosses to the nearest window and struggles with its iron latch. It yields after two attempts. Mountain wind enters the chamber, lifting the loose strands around her braid and sending the hanging beside the bed snapping against stone.

Cold settles across my skin.

My body cannot shiver. The numiscu has taken even that response. Yet my pulse ceases its climb.

Fiona watches the change at my throat. “Warmth quickens it.”

I blink.

“The salve was warmed by your skin and the fire.”

Another blink.

She moves the poisoned jar to the windowsill, away from the treatment cloths. “Then whatever I prepare must remain cold.”

Her understanding reaches me through the bond, tentative but growing. She has the pieces now: the false flower, fylvek, the mountain cold.

One piece remains.

Balance.

The Arbiter’s scales appear in my mind. Not a merchant’s scale measuring equal weights, but the sacred form engraved throughout Morwen’thir. One side holds paralysis. The other holds violent stimulation. Neither can be allowed to dominate. The remedy must support breath and muscle without forcing heat through poisoned blood.

This is principle, not preparation. Fiona must supply the healer’s knowledge I lack.

I shape the scales as clearly as I can.

Numiscu rests on one side, dark oil dripping from blue petals. Fylvek rests on the other. Between them stands the central line of the Arbiter, steady against both extremes.

I send it.

The connection tears with the effort.

Pain flares through my scar and across my chest. My vision darkens at the edges. For a moment I lose Fiona’s face, the chamber, and the cold air touching my skin.

Then her mind meets mine.

The contact is hesitant. It carries no words and reveals no hidden chamber of thought. I feel only her attempt to receive me, a careful pressure shaped by trust. She follows the image to the scales and holds there.