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Briar arrives with fresh fylvek and rirzed. She cools the basin, replaces the damp cloths, and records each dose at Fiona’s direction. No one heats the room.

By midday, I can lift both hands. My legs answer poorly, first with sensation, then with painful contractions. Fiona tests each joint and orders me to stop whenever my pulse rises too quickly.

The first attempt to sit ends with the room tilting around me. Fiona lowers me before my shoulders can strike the chaise. She gives no comfort shaped as false praise. She checks my eyes, counts my pulse, and tells me exactly how little my body is ready to bear.

“You endured paralysis,” she says. “That is not the same as recovering from it.”

I dislike the distinction because it is accurate.

She makes me flex each finger, then each foot, tracking whether sensation returns at the same rate on both sides. When my left leg lags, she presses cold cloth around the thigh and waits rather than increasing the fylvek. By evening, the difference has narrowed.

Chaos returns along the same gradual path. I form a stable thread above my palm, hold it for five breaths, and release it without a surge.

Fiona watches the fading motes. “Again.”

I repeat the test.

“Your breathing is stable,” she says. “Movement is returning evenly. Your magic answers without feeding the poison.”

“A favorable report,” I manage.

My voice is little more than rough sound.

Her eyes close briefly. “You are forbidden from making jokes until you can sit upright.”

“That was not a joke.”

“Then the poison damaged your judgment.”

The exchange leaves me weaker than it should. I rest against the cushions while she checks the wound again.

The numiscu recedes. The necromantic scar remains.

It burns when chaos passes too near my side, unchanged by fylvek, cold, or Fiona’s skill. She lays her fingers near it without pretending the remedy has accomplished what it cannot.

“The old curse is still there,” she says.

“I know.”

“This treated the poison. Nothing more.”

“It was sufficient.”

Her gaze rests on me. “It has to be.”

The following day, I stand with Joran’s arm beneath mine and Fiona glaring from the opposite side. I take four steps before my knees weaken.

“Bed,” she orders.

“Chair.”

“Bed.”

Joran examines the ceiling with suspicious interest.

“A chair beside the bed,” I say.

Fiona considers the compromise. “For ten minutes.”