In the secluded herb garden tucked behind the eastern wing of their chambers.
Lumina sat alone on a low stone bench beneath a sprawling yew tree. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy in thin golden spears, catching motes of dust and the faint green haze rising from the mortar in her lap.
The leather pouch lay open beside her, roots and dried petals scattered like battlefield casualties.
Her pestle moved in grind, thud, grind crushing feverfew and valerian into a bitter paste, the sharp scent clinging to her fingers and the folds of her dark green gown.
Footsteps crunched on the gravel path. Ashen approached, sweat-damp hair clinging to his brow, he had just gotten back from the infirmary.
He stopped a few paces away, watching the relentless motion of her hands.
"She's doing fine now," he said, voice low but firm.
Lumina didn't look up. The pestle kept its pace, thud like she hadn't heard him at all.
