Varang had broken bones with her hands and bent clans with her will. Power came easily to her. Control even easier.

Healing, though—that was something else entirely.

Her mate worked at the edge of the Mangkwan camp, where smoke from crushed leaves curled low and the air smelled of bitter sap and rain-soaked roots. Fingers stained green and gold, movements careful, deliberate. Where Varang ruled through fear and precision, the herbalist ruled through patience. Through knowing which plant eased fever, which stopped bleeding, which dreams were safe to let a wounded warrior keep.

Varang watched her from a distance she didn’t bother hiding. She never did. The clan knew better than to interrupt when their olo’eyktan stood still like that—attention sharpened, eyes dark with focus that wasn’t about war.

Her mate didn’t look up right away. She never rushed. She finished what she was doing first, always. Then—only then—did she turn, calm and unafraid, as if Varang wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the clearing.

Everyone else bowed. Stepped aside. Held their breath.

The herbalist only reached out, palm warm, grounding. Touch light where Varang’s world was heavy. A reminder that even weapons needed tending. That even fire needed something living to keep it from burning itself out.

Varang had conquered many things.

But this—this quiet, steady presence at her side—was the only thing she guarded without threat.