The deck of the Iron Victory still stank of blood and salt. Crows circled above, drawn by the aftermath of battle, some islands in a land unfamiliar to her. Below, in the captain’s cabin, the dusky woman moved silently, a basin of boiled vinegar in her hands, steam rising into the cold, iron-scented air.

Victarion sat grim at the edge of his cot, chest bare, one arm stiff and red where steel had torn it open. He did not look at her, only grunted as she knelt before him.

She dipped the cloth, pressing it gently to his wound.

He hissed through clenched teeth.

She did not flinch. Her eyes stayed on the gash as she worked—slow, steady, her hands practiced. The ship creaked with every wave, but she was still as stone. In her mind, she named the herbs she would have used, if this had been Naath.

Kalathi leaves for pain… Neme oil for fever…

But there was no Naath here. Only iron and flame. She used to be a healer back in Naath, now she was not much anymore, only a tongueless servant.