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I press my palms against the worktable.

Nessa’s hand locked around my arm. Her face had warned me even while her words drove me toward the stall. I saw the fear and bought the herbs anyway because I could not identify its source.

There will be time for anger if Rhysandir survives.

If he dies, nothing I feel will matter.

I cover the contaminated plants with an overturned glass vessel. “Guard.”

The door soldier steps inside. He is Zagfer, tall enough that the lintel nearly catches his dark hair. His armor carries Morwen’thir green beneath its black plates.

“My Lady.”

“Bring Joran’s evidence keeper. The bought herbs are confirmed numiscu. Preserve both samples exactly as they are. One is from my solarium crop. The other came from the Lowtown merchant.”

“At once.”

“No one burns, washes, or tastes anything connected to that purchase. The salve, jar, wrapping, remaining herbs, market seller’s mark, and surveillance reports stay under separate seals.”

He touches his fist to his chest and leaves.

Heavy steps approach before the solarium door can settle. Briar enters carrying fresh herbs bundled against her apron. Wind has reddened her cheeks. Snow clings to the hem of her plain dress.

“You sent for fylvek,” she says. “I cut every mature root from the western bed.”

She places the bundle on the table. Dark green blades spill across the wood, their fibrous roots damp with soil.

“Good.” I separate the roots from the leaves. “I need the roots washed in cold water. No water from the kitchen kettles. Use the storage jar beneath the northern bench.”

Briar pulls the jar free. “Is Lord Morwen’thir breathing?”

“Barely, but steadily when I left.”

Her hands falter around the lid. “Can you stop the poison?”

“I cannot draw it out at once. Numiscu locks the muscles and obstructs magic. Warmth makes it move faster. The remedy must support what his body is losing while the poison weakens.”

“Then why fylvek?”

“It stimulates circulation and breath, but too much would heat his blood and drive the numiscu deeper. Too little will fail to support his lungs.”

Briar looks toward the Arbiter’s sigil carved into a stone planter. “Balance.”

“Exactly. Cold and balance. We give his body enough strength to continue without forcing it into a struggle it cannot win.”

She carries the roots to the washing basin.

I close the nearest brazier and move the drying trays away from its residual heat. “Open the roof vents.”

Briar pulls the first chain. A glass panel shifts overhead, admitting a blade of mountain wind. She opens a second vent above the worktable. The solarium’s temperature falls quickly. Moisture clouds the glass and freezes at its edges.

My fingers ache in the cold. I welcome it.

We work.

Briar washes the fylvek until no soil remains between its fibers. I slice the clean roots into thin pieces, weighing each portion against rirzed seed on a small balance. The usual restorative uses hot water to draw strength from the root. Heat is forbidden tonight.

I must extract enough without it.