A week.
That was how long I had been with Silver Blood. A flesh-eating parasite called rot-lung had spread through the lower ranks before I arrived. Their healers had failed to identify it. I found the cause in an hour, made the cure in a day, and cleared the infection from the pack in three.
After the third day, no one called me a refugee again. They called me Chief Healer.
I asked for a laboratory instead of a suite or fine clothes. Alpha Caspian reviewed my plans for a medical tower with research wings and quarantine wards, doubled the budget, and assigned his best builders.
Now I stood on the unfinished first floor while a dozen apprentices copied my sterilization protocol. Several kept writing after I stopped, afraid they had missed a ratio.
“That will be all for today,” I said,
