Marina's clinic stood at the edge of the city, where the cobblestone streets gave way to dirt and the palace walls faded from view. It was a simple building—two stories, whitewashed stone, a red cross painted above the door. A garden grew in the back, filled with herbs and healing plants. A queue stretched from the entrance to the corner.
Marina Ashwood had not slept in three days.
She moved between patients with practiced efficiency, her hands steady despite her exhaustion. A wolf with a broken arm. A human child with a fever. A pregnant woman in early labor. The cases blurred together, each one urgent, and demanding.
"Marina, the wolf in room three is refusing treatment." Her assistant, a young human woman named Beth, appeared at her elbow. "He says he won't be touched by a human healer."
"Then let him bleed." Marina didn't look up from the wound she was stitching. "I don't have time for prejudice."
"He's losing a lot of blood."
