Before anything else, the poison had to be removed. If the toxin remained, no amount of wound treatment would matter.
Harold watched her movements in silence.
Zora's hands were steady, precise, moving with practiced ease.
The methods she used were unfamiliar to him, and a flicker of doubt surfaced in his mind. Was this… acupuncture? A lost technique from the mysterious Eastern Continent?
Had it been anyone else, he might have suspected stalling or deception.
But when he noticed the fine beads of sweat forming at her temples and the intense concentration in her eyes, he understood. She was truly treating him.
An odd woman, he thought. She had promised to heal him, and she was actually doing it.
As the silver needles fell into place, the blackened discoloration around the wound began to recede, inch by inch.
Harold's pupils contracted slightly. "This..."
