When Shuri comes to, she’s covered in a pile of blankets so heavy, she can’t lift her arms or legs. The princess opens her mouth to scream, but finds it so dry, she shuts it again out of fear that her tongue might crack and crumble to pieces.

Also quite dry are her eyes, but they do slowly adjust to the dim light. She turns her head to the left, and though pain, sharp and insistent, shoots down both arms into her fingertips, the princess is relieved to see warm light filtering through the wooden blind that’s pulled low over the room’s lone window.

Where is she? And where is everyone else?

She shuts her eyes and groans.

“Oh, beloved Bast!” comes a familiar voice from somewhere in the room. “I think she’s waking up!”

When Shuri next opens her eyes, there are two silhouettes looming above her: a girl with a round face and elaborate braided hairdo, and a boy with hair that is higher at the top than on the sides. “Oh my gods, Shuri, oh my gods!” the girl says, throwing herself onto the princess’s upper half.

“Owwwww,” the young royal manages to croak. Why does her body ache so badly?

“Sorry, sorry!” the little Dora replies. “I am just so happy that you are alive.”

The boy makes that “teeth-sucking” sound Shuri has seen American teenagers make on television shows when they don’t like something said by an adult. “We knew she wasn’t gonna die, K’Marah. Miss Umela told us that much—”

“Yes, well, she could’ve been wrong, couldn’t she?”

“Dramatic,” Shuri forces up from her dry throat and through her cracked lips.

“Oh, shut up,” K’Marah replies. “Without my drama, as you call it, we wouldn’t have gotten you here.”

“You can say that again,” Miles groans.

“What …” Shuri says (not even the pain of speaking in her current state could temper the princess’s need to know things). “What do you mean?”

“Well, when you went down, your friend here went tearing through the marketplace, shouting ‘Someone! Anyone! Your most high Majesty, Princess Shuri, needs a healer! Help, or you will all be vanquished and/or banished!” The high-pitched voice Miles uses to mimic K’Marah makes Shuri want to laugh, but she fights it because: pain. Much, much pain.

“I do not sound that way,” K’Marah huffs.

Oh, you most certainly do, Shuri wants to add, but can’t.

“You actually do sometimes, Karami,” cuts in a third voice. Light floods the room as the blind is lifted. “Your Majesty, how are you feeling?”

When Nakia’s face appears above the princess, she almost bursts into tears. The sight of her Msingi fills Shuri with so much unexpected emotion, she can’t figure out what she’s actually feeling.

“You took quite a blow,” the elder Dora continues.

Shuri opens her mouth to speak again. “Wha—”

But it hurts too much.

“Ah yes,” Nakia says. “Umela warned us of this. Hold tight, eh?” (As though there’s anything else she could do?)

Miles looks to his left—presumably to make sure Nakia is gone?—before he leans in closer. “Yo, not to freak you out? But that was one of the wildest things I’ve ever seen,” he says in a near whisper. “And I’ve seen a lot of wild things. Like …” He shakes his head. “Just trust me. But that … The way the area around the gashes immediately, like, turned black and wrinkly, and these little yellow flowers started poppin’ up in the wounds—”

“I believe that’s quite enough, young Mr. Morales,” Nakia says as she returns. But Miles’s statement about little yellow flowers has already taken root in Shuri’s head. A pair of images pops into her mind: one of blackened and decayed security forest tree trunks, and the other of a wide swath of shriveled heart-shaped herb plants—both of which were covered in little yellow flowers.

A sign that Henbane’s mutant toxin was at work.

Had it gotten inside Shuri’s body?

“Princess, this is Mganga Umela,” Nakia says, pulling the princess from her ponderings. She gestures to a beautiful—and remarkably regal—dark brown–skinned woman who has come into Shuri’s view.

“An honor, Your Majesty,” she says with a slight bow. (How do Mother and T’Challa deal with everyone bowing to them all the time? Shuri wonders.)

“K’Marah, Miles, if you will, please,” Nakia says.

Shuri’s friends disappear from her bedside, and the woman, Mganga Umela, takes their place. “You may call me Umela,” she says, beginning to remove Shuri’s coverings one by one. The lifted weight is great, but the ache that floods her limbs in place of the pressure? Not so much.

Umela seems to read Shuri’s mind. “I presume you are in quite a bit of pain,” she says. “The toxin that entered your bloodstream was incredibly potent. I had to use a powerful—and atypical—combination of herbs and tinctures to flush it out.”

Once Umela has removed the final blanket, she disappears from view, and Shuri can hear the sound of things being picked up and put down, and the clanking of glass that the princess has no doubt means something is being stirred. (A scientist always knows.) Then Umela returns and kneels beside her. She lifts the left side of the top Shuri is wearing (which feels much looser than any she would typically put on), and then there’s the sharp bite of sticky bandage adhesive being removed from the skin. “Ah, that’s looking better!” Umela says.

“Yeah, cuz there’s no flowers growing out her stomach—”

“Miles!” K’Marah barks. “Zip it!”

Umela grins and shakes her head. “This is definitely going to sting, Your Highness,” she says. “But you’ll thank me once it subsides. Ready?”

Shuri nods … and instantly regrets it. Because whatever this Umela woman is spreading over her abdomen might as well be made of the blue fire from an oxyacetylene torch. The burn slithers beneath her skin and travels through every inch of her body.

She couldn’t scream if she wanted to. (And she certainly wants to.)

But then … a cooling sensation follows the same course. And once the strange feeling diminishes, so do all of Shuri’s aches and pains.

She has a frightening flash of memory: her hand against her belly, and something warm and wet that shouldn’t have been there. Blood, she realizes. On instinct, she touches the exact same spot: There are four slightly raised lines—that she’s certain weren’t there before—and her skin is cold to the touch, but it’s definitely closed now.

“Lift your head,” Umela says.

When she complies, the beautiful woman places a small bowl to Shuri’s lips and tips it so that a cold, viscous liquid spills into the princess’s mouth. The flavor reminds her of fresh passion fruit nectar.

And as it travels down her throat, her limbs take on a lightness that wasn’t there.

“Do you think you can sit up?” Umela says.

Shuri ponders for a moment; then her muscles start to tingle, like they’re just dying to be used. So she pops right up and swings her legs over the edge of the bed she’s on. It’s higher than she anticipated, but no matter: She hops off and lands on her feet with no problem or pain.

“Great Bast!” Shuri shakes out her arms and legs, and commences bouncing on her toes. “I haven’t felt this energized since … I don’t think I’ve ever felt this energized.”

Umela chuckles. “Excellent,” she says with a nod. Shuri watches her cross the room—a much smaller space than she realized—to return her implements to a little round table situated beside a cabinet full of different bottles and vials and jars of various sizes and colors. That’s when Shuri notices the symbol carved into the dirt wall above the window. Three stacked wavy lines centered inside an eight-rayed sun.

It matches the tattoo on the back of Umela’s right hand.

The princess gasps. “You’re an Asili!” she says. The princess learned about the ancient clan of Wakandans—said to be born with the power of healing in the tips of their fingers—while studying The Medicinal Practices of East Africa in her Afro-Biology class. Shuri was vaguely convinced that their existence was myth. And yet:

“The only one in the region, yes,” Umela says. “But we can talk about that more on the way.”

Shuri’s eyebrows rise. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Sure are, Princess,” K’Marah says. “Especially now that we know you’re not dead.”

“K’Marah.” Nakia puts a hand on her forehead.

“Miss Umela here is going to show us the way!” Miles says, so excited he’s practically leaping out of his typical-American-teenager getup.

Very cute, this Miles Morales. “The way to where?” Shuri says, doing her best to focus. Her body is good as new, but there’s clearly still a bit of a fog over her mind.

“Into the Jabari-Lands,” Umela says, pulling open a door so well blended into the wall, Shuri hadn’t noticed it. She produces four sets of hooded white coveralls and hands them to each member of the princess’s entourage.

“We watched Venbane flee into the mountains,” K’Marah says. “And while you were clomping around at death’s doorstep, we decided that if you ever came back—”

“When you woke up,” Miles corrects. He shakes his head.

“If, when. Gonja, maduro …” The little Dora waves the differences off. “We are going to the main Jabari village to see if anyone knows where Henbane is.”

“We have a three-hour trek through the Crystal Forest,” Umela says. “Put on the coveralls and you’ll stay warm.”

Everyone complies, and once Shuri has hers buttoned up, she suddenly feels as though she is wrapped in the softest, coziest blanket known to mankind.

“Whoa!” she says, lifting her arms to examine the fabric. “What on earth are these made of?”

“Ancient secret,” Umela says with a wink. “Now come on. Our chariot awaits.”