Three years later,
Thorne Pack,
Elara's POV
The silence broke with a wet, tearing sound.
My hands were stained crimson. Not from the Nightshade poultice I was prepping, but from the dark, rich overflow of Alpha blood gushing from the gash on Beta Ronan's thigh. The metallic tang of his spilled life mixed sickeningly with the earthy, medicinal scent of the herbs - a familiar cocktail in the Thorne Pack infirmary, but today the scent was too strong.
"Hold pressure, damn it!" I snapped at the trembling Omega assistant.
My heart was a frantic, anxious drumbeat against my ribs, racing Ronan's fading pulse.
Outside, the air vibrated with the distant, rumbling thunder of the ongoing supernatural war. Demon armies and werewolf hunter platoons were relentless, forcing us into a constant, grinding battle. But this wasn't hunter damage. This was the miasma. The poison was already turning the edges of Ronan's wound a sickly veiny grey.
Ronan, Kaelen's second-ranking Beta, had barely been dragged back from the front line alive. He was thrashing against his restraints, sweat beading on his wide forehead. If I didn't stop the internal bleed and neutralize the miasma's spread in the next three minutes, he was dead. And if Ronan died under my watch, Lady Thorne would have the excuse she needed to discard me entirely.
My own survival hinged on the effectiveness of these crushed leaves.
I, Elara Vane, daughter of a massacred Alpha and heir to a powerful, now-extinct line, worked as a glorified scullery maid and healer here. The dormant Alpha blood was hidden beneath layers of subservience and grime. Three years ago, Alpha Kaelen Thorne, the king of this pack, had rescued me from a hunter's cage because of the unwanted Mate Bond. That rescue mission was the moment everything changed, yet nothing improved. He brought me here, not as his Luna, but as a tolerated fixture.
They treat rogues like the dirt on their boots. The whispers of the pack were the constant, grinding soundtrack of my life. They don't know my grandmother was a witch; the healing skills I possessed were a powerful lineage, a blend of forbidden magic and medicine that surpassed their clinical approach, and I had to use it now.
"The needle, quickly!" I yelled, snatching the bone needle from the tray.
My fingers, stained dark with the Nightshade juice, flew over Ronan's flank, weaving the stitches tight, ignoring the way his muscles jumped and spasmed beneath my touch.
"She's wasting time on that Black Magic!" Lena's voice, thin and poisonous, cut through the tension from across the room.
She and Maya, the pack maidens, were supposed to be cleaning bandages, but their focus was, as always, on me.
"Just stitching won't save him from the taint!" Maya hissed, thick with satisfied malice.
"She's trying to suck up to the Elders. The King wants a queen with a pure lineage, not something they dragged out of a hunter's cage. As if!"
The words didn't sting; they fueled the desperate, frantic energy in my hands. They were right, of course. I was a slave given the title of "mate."
I worked until my hands bled, treating everyone, desperate to prove that the blood in my veins was worth more than the dirt on my clothes. I hoped that if I were indispensable enough, essential enough, Kaelen might finally turn that intense, obsidian gaze on me and see not the rogue, but the equal.
The bleeding slowed, a small victory, but Ronan's skin was now clammy, his breathing shallow. The miasma was winning.
"The decoction," I muttered, turning to the tiny, guarded vial on the counter.
It was the purest extract of Nightshade and silverweed, prepared using my grandmother's technique - the technique the Elders called heresy. I reached for it, knowing that if I used it, I risked exposure. And if I didn't, Ronan will die.
A sudden paralyzing wave of sharp lavender scent slammed into the room.
A shadow fell over the counter, plunging the vial into darkness. Lady Thorne, Alpha Kaelen's mother, swept in, radiating the absolute authority of a long-established pack matriarch. She was carved from ice and granite, and her very presence caused a terrifying, cold vacuum of silence.
She didn't look at the Beta. She looked directly at me.
"Is the Beta stable, Elara?" Her voice was smooth, cultured, layered with unspoken loathing.
She never used my name without emphasizing the derogatory weight of my rogue status.
"No, Lady Thorne," I replied, my voice steady despite the seismic shift in my chest. "The arterial bleed is managed, but the miasma is progressing quickly. His system is failing."
Lady Thorne finally glanced at Ronan. Her lip curled slightly, with the smallest, most devastating sign of disgust.
"He should heal faster by willpower alone. You are using too much sedative Nightshade, dulling his senses. You are wasting pack resources."
"My healing methods are effective, Lady Thorne. They combine herbal knowledge inherited from my maternal lineage..." I started, my fingers already reaching, trembling, toward the vial.
I had to use it, but she cut me off with a flick of her manicured hand.
"Silence. I do not tolerate arrogance, especially from those who have yet to prove their worth. That Beta's fate is the Moon Goodness' will. You will not dose him with any more of your tainted rogue remedies."
She didn't wait for my response. She stepped closer, placing her slender, strong hand directly over the vial. Her eyes, the same obsidian black as her son's, drilled into mine. The message was a sharp, physical blow:
'Use the witch's blood and face my wrath.'
The maidens resumed their silent mockery. Ronan let out a guttural wet cough, his life flickering; I shoved my panic down.
"He will die, Lady Thorne." I cried, desperately.
"Then he will die," she stated simply, her voice like ice scraping slate. "But you will not violate pack law while serving my son. I brought Kaelen a message you will deliver. It is time for you to earn your miserable place."
I felt the sudden, hot rush of adrenaline - not from fear, but from the sudden, unexpected command that would put me in his path.
This is it... my chance to prove my worth!
"I need you to take the full report on the North Ridge scouting failure to the barracks," she commanded, her voice dropping to a low, intense threat.
"Alpha Kaelen is reviewing supply routes tonight. He needs the failure report before he decides where to deploy the next battalion. It must be in his hands within the hour. Do you understand, Elara? One hour."
The report was heavy, bound in black leather, sitting on her side table. It was volatile information - a disaster report - and she was sending me to deliver it.
This wasn't a punishment; it was a political maneuver designed to put me in a situation I would fail.
She wants me to botch the delivery so Kaelen rejects me for incompetence.
"Yes, Lady Thorne," I replied, my voice steady.
My wolf, Aurine, gave a low, feral growl of anticipation not for the danger, but for the chance to be near Kaelen.
Lady Thorne swept past Ronan, stopping only to glare at the maidens.
"Clean this mess. And keep your poisonous gossip contained." She turned back to me, her eyes narrowing. "Do not be late. And do not touch that Beta again."
She exited, her lavender scent receding, leaving a trail of cold fear.
Ronan's breathing hitched, a terrible, rattling sound. I looked from the still-twitching Beta, to the door where the Matriarch had just left, and then to the vial, still forbidden.
I didn't hesitate, as my fingers snatched the vial and poured the dark, rich decoction down Ronan's throat in one smooth motion.
I didn't care about the maidens' shocked gasps. I didn't care about Lady Thorne's threat. Beta Ronan's immediate survival was the only thing that mattered.
"Clear the room," I commanded the maidens, my voice low and fierce. "Now."
Ronan's thrashing immediately subsided, and his muscles relaxed. The grey tinge on his wound seemed to pause, retracting slightly, as the witch-blood worked in his system.
I grabbed the heavy report, the leather feeling rough and alien in my hands. The sight of the pack matriarch's perfect, hateful script on the cover was a reminder of the impossible task ahead. One hour to cross the entire compound, fight through the security lines at the war room, and deliver news of failure to the King of the pack.
My jaw locked. My legs were already moving, carrying me toward the door. I was a slave given an order, but I was also an Alpha-blood given a chance to prove I was more than a joke.
I had one hour to survive the Matriarch's trap and reach Kaelen Thorne. I then sprinted out of the infirmary, letting the fear and the adrenaline pull me forward.