The steam from the herbal teapot curled toward the vaulted stone ceiling, but the brief morning warmth had evaporated into sharp urgency.
Elena stepped past the prep table, her dark eyes locking onto Commander Caleb. "What kind of sickness? Fever, lung rot, or tainted water?"
"Black fever with weeping skin lesions, My Lady," Caleb reported, holding out a sealed leather dispatch pouch. "It began two nights ago in the lower timber mills. The village herbalist ran out of silverleaf extract before midnight. Over thirty pack members—mostly elders and weaned pups—are burning up in the parish hall."
Elena’s fingers moved swiftly, untying the knot on her woolen shawl and folding it over the back of a wooden bench. "Silverleaf won't break black fever once the skin weeps. It requires boiled root
