Owodo knelt in the eastern field and pressed her palm to the cracked stone marker tucked against an old tree's roots. She had carved a fresh notch that morning, another season counted, another harvest thinning. She wanted three things, and she wanted them braided together: the prince's heart, a healed land, and a seat where her voice could not be waved away. She opened her leather satchel and pulled out small jars of comfrey, ash, and bran water. Her green journal lay across her knees, its gold vines catching the low sun. She checked her three ratios, marked which row drank well and which still choked. The soil was answering her, slowly. The court was not. A shadow slid across the page. A black wolf stood at the field's edge, yellow eyes steady on her. She did not move. The wolf stepped closer, sniffed the jar of bran water, and lay down beside her like it had decided something. Footsteps followed. A rider in court colors stopped at the oak gate that marked the prince's hunting bounds. He stared past the brass plaque at the woman, the wolf, and the dirt under her nails. "That animal belongs to the prince," he said. "It does not lie down for strangers." Owodo stood. She kept one hand on the journal and one on the wolf's shoulder. "Then tell the prince his wolf has found sick ground," she said. "And tell him a herbalist is already treating it. If he wants to see, the gate is right there." The rider turned his horse and rode hard back toward the keep. The wolf stayed. Owodo watched the dust settle on the brass plaque and felt the door she had been pushing on finally crack open.

The dust from the rider's horse had barely settled when Owodo heard hooves again, more than one horse this time. She stayed on her knees beside the wolf and counted. Four riders, maybe five, coming faster than a message and slower than a charge. The rider had not gone to the prince. He had gone for guards. She looked at the wolf, then at the small glass house she had built at the field's edge, its panes fogged with the breath of her test plants. She had minutes, not hours. She moved. She grabbed her satchel and ran for the greenhouse, herb bundles swinging against the leather. Inside, she pulled clean linen from a shelf and tore it into strips. She emptied comfrey leaves into her mortar, added yarrow for bleeding, pine resin for sealing wounds. She ground fast, added bran water, and spread the paste onto the linen. Battle salve. Field gauze. The kind of thing a guard captain recognized on sight. She packed six wrapped bandages, three jars of cream, and a small tin of burn balm into a flat basket. Outside, a squirrel sat on the greenhouse step, tail flicking. Owodo crouched and pressed a scrap of birch bark into its paws. She had scratched three words with charcoal: fields, guards, come. She whispered the prince's name against its ear the way her grandmother had taught her, and the squirrel bolted toward the keep. The wolf watched it go and did not move from her side. The iron gate at the field's edge groaned open. Four guards came through, spears mounted high on the bars swinging as the hinges turned. Vines snapped where the metal scraped. The court rider rode at their back, pointing at her. "That one. She claimed the prince's wolf. She is trespassing." The lead guard dismounted. His hand rested on his sword. He was young, and his knuckles were split, and there was a poorly wrapped cut along his forearm bleeding through wool. Owodo stood with the basket held out flat, palms up. "Before you take me anywhere, look at your arm." She did not raise her voice. "I have salve that will close that by morning. I have gauze that will not stick. I have cream for the two behind you who are limping." The guard glanced down at his sleeve, then at his men. She stepped closer and unwrapped a bandage. "Sit. One minute. Then arrest me if you still want to." He sat. She cleaned the cut, packed it with comfrey paste, and wrapped it tight. The second guard came forward without being asked. By the time the third rolled up his trouser to show a burn, hooves sounded again on the road, faster and single. The prince rode through the open gate with the squirrel on his shoulder. He looked at his guards, kneeling around a herbalist, and he did not order her ta