Arin no longer needed instructions when she entered the infirmary each morning.
She arrived before sunrise, sometimes even before Isolde, and swept through the corridors with a calm efficiency that made the other assistants glance her way with a mix of admiration and wariness. What had begun as simple recordkeeping quickly expanded into something more intricate, restocking salves, categorizing herbs by potency, and even brewing tinctures under Isolde's supervision.
What surprised Arin most wasn't how quickly she learned, she had always been a fast learner. It was how much she enjoyed it. The art of healing was delicate but purposeful. Intentional. She liked the way scents guided her hands: the cool menthol scent of crushed mint, the bitter tang of bark soaked in rainwater, the sweet bite of wild ginger root.
