My days at Ashford Pack were quiet.

Every morning, the pack warriors ran patrol in wolf form, streaming through the territory in formation.

I sat on the stone wall at the edge of the training ground and watched them pass.

I'd sit there for the entire morning.

I was the only young member of the pack who never shifted.

Especially since Diane had announced to everyone on her very first day that I'd "shifted at fifteen with excellent combat talent."

The whispers spread fast.

"The Alpha's new chosen mate brought a daughter—think she never awakened?"

"She might be an Omega."

"Her mother said she had great fighting talent. Why won't she even train?"

The warriors lowered their voices when they passed me, but werewolf hearing made that effort pointless. I caught every word.

I didn't explain anything.

Diane heard the talk too. Every time she walked by the training ground and saw me sitting on the wall, she shot me a look that could kill.

That look was nothing new—disappointment laced with regret for bringing me here.

And Alaric—I noticed him watching me from the far end of the training ground sometimes.

Not a casual glance. A quiet, deliberate study.

An Alpha doesn't watch someone who won't fight without a reason. Unless he'd sensed something wrong.

A she-wolf with Alpha bloodline who wouldn't shift—not because she couldn't, but because she wasn't able to.

He'd probably already figured it out.

That evening after the pack dinner, my phone screen lit up.

A formal notice.

From the underground wolf-fighting alliance near Colton's old territory.

I opened it and read every line. My fingers went cold.

The message was simple: Gareth had signed a Blood Debt guarantee in my name. The document stated—"Elder daughter Ember, currently residing at Ashford Pack, possesses shift capability and can fight to repay the debt."

The amount was what Gareth had lost in his final high-stakes bet at the wolf pits. He'd strapped my name to the gambling table as collateral.

If I didn't report to the pits for a fight within ten days, the alliance had the right to send collectors to Ashford territory.

I stared at the screen, my throat tightening.

I'd thought leaving Southern Ridge would sever all ties with that place. I'd thought this life would never take me back inside a wolf pit.

But Gareth would use anyone to fill the hole he'd dug. In my past life, I'd walked into the silver cage willingly. In this one, he'd simply signed my name without asking.

My phone buzzed again.

A message from Ivy, righteous as ever:

"Sis, just take care of it. Dad says that money is what you owe him."

A second message followed immediately:

"You've got an Alpha backing you over there. This is pocket change for you, right? Unless you'd rather actually get into the pit and let those rogues rip you apart."

I looked at the screen. Didn't reply.

Memories of the wolf pits came flooding back, frame by frame. Silver cage bars. The frenzied howling from the stands. The stench of blood carried on the wind as red-eyed fighters lunged at me.

My wolf convulsed deep inside me.

She remembered too.

Every time her flesh was torn. Every bone that snapped. Every fight where she was beaten to the edge of consciousness and still had to drag herself back up.

I locked the screen and set the phone face-down on the floor.

The pain came without warning.

The inside of my arm erupted in searing heat, like something beneath the skin was forcing a new crack open.

I looked down—a fresh claw mark was surfacing, creeping slowly upward from above the elbow.

Getting closer to the heart.

Blood seeped from the split skin, thin and watery, running down my arm and dripping onto my sleeve. A small dark stain bloomed across the fabric.

I needed to clean this up.

I ran for the nearest place—the equipment shed beside the training ground.

The door was unlocked. I slipped inside and shut it behind me.

Training pads and weapon racks filled the shed. There was a water jug in the corner. I twisted off the cap and poured water over the wound. Diluted blood ran down my forearm and dripped onto the floor.

But I'd forgotten to bring bandages.

The wound was still seeping. I pressed my other hand over it, scanning the room for anything I could use.

The shed door swung open.

I looked up.

Alaric stood in the doorway.

His gaze dropped to my arm. To the claw marks laid bare. To the fresh crack still leaking blood.

He didn't speak.

A few seconds of silence.

Then he said: "I'll have the top Healer come treat you."

I pulled my arm behind my back instinctively. "No need. Just a scratch."

I paused, then added: "Thank you, Alpha Ashford."

He looked at me. Not appraising, not pitying. I couldn't name the expression, but his eyes made me feel like he saw right through me—and was simply choosing not to say so.

He was quiet for a moment. He didn't press.

Then he walked to the equipment rack, pulled a roll of bandages from the second shelf, and held it out to me.

"If it hurts, say so."

I froze.

Before I could respond, he set the bandages on the shelf beside me, turned, and walked out.

The door closed. The shed fell quiet again.

I picked up the bandage roll and wound it around my arm, layer by layer. As the cloth met my skin, I caught a scent.

Faint, but unmistakable.

Wolfsbane.

Alaric's secret—I knew.

The first day at the training ground, when I saw the mark on his arm, I thought I'd imagined it. How could the Alpha who'd saved the entire werewolf world be in decay, just like me?

But then I noticed Alaric disappearing for half a day every few days.

Diane assumed it was border business. She never asked.

She was too busy building her "Luna" image in the pack to actually care about Alaric's whereabouts—as long as he was still the Alpha, that was all that mattered.

But I knew it wasn't border business.

It was a wolf-decay episode. I knew the rhythm too well—pain accumulates, builds to a breaking point, then erupts all at once. Your body feels like it's being ripped open from the inside.

When it hits, all you can do is find an empty place and ride it out.

One time I went to the Pack House kitchen for water. Passing the garbage area at the end of the corridor, I saw a box labeled "Alpha Nutritional Supplement" tossed in the recycling bin.

The box wasn't fully closed. A trace of liquid remained inside.

That color. Deep purple, viscous, with a faint oily sheen at the edges.

That wasn't a nutritional supplement. That was Wolfsbane.

A healthy wolf would never touch the stuff. Even the smell would trigger the instinct to recoil.

Only wolves like us—decaying, drowning in unbearable pain, with nowhere left to turn—would use poison to suppress ourselves.

In my past life, the wolf pits had nearly destroyed me. Every time I shifted back to human form, it felt like every bone was being ground to dust. I'd writhe on the floor. Regular painkillers had been useless for years.

A black-market Healer taught me to use Wolfsbane extract. I kept it in a vitamin bottle and told Gareth it was a health supplement. He never questioned it. He only cared whether I could win the next fight.

And now, the Alpha who'd repelled the vampire invasion and saved the entire werewolf world was using the same trick to fool everyone around him.

I closed the bin lid and walked away.

Pretended I hadn't seen anything.

A few days later, I was sitting on the stone wall at the edge of the training ground as usual.

Alaric was coaching a group of warriors through sparring drills. He stood between two fighters, correcting one's punching angle with a sharp, efficient motion.

Then he coughed.

Not a normal cough—a violent, chest-ripping fit that he couldn't suppress.

He bent over, one hand braced on his knee, the other clamped over his mouth. The coughs came rapid and heavy, like something was slamming against the walls of his chest.

Every warrior on the field froze.

Over twenty people stood motionless, no one knowing how to react.

He was the pillar of the werewolf world. The entire territory—the entire species' sense of safety—rested on four words: "Alaric is still here." If he went down, the vampires would breach every werewolf defense within twenty-four hours.

Alaric's Beta was the first to move. He strode forward, positioning his body between Alaric and the warriors, back turned to the field. "Continue training! All of you—move!"

The warriors hesitated for a second, then resumed their drills. But every movement was half-hearted, every pair of eyes drifting toward the Beta's back.

Alaric straightened up. He lowered his hand, turned, and walked toward the Pack House. His stride looked steady, no different from normal.

But from my perch on the stone wall, I saw his fist clenched at his side.

Knuckles white. Veins straining.

Diane immediately rushed after him, trotting to his side, reaching for his arm with a look of practiced concern.

The Beta intercepted her.

"The Alpha needs rest, Luna." Polite but firm. "Please don't disturb him."

Diane was blocked outside the study door, the smile frozen on her face.

A layer of unease settled over the entire pack.

Warriors whispered: "Was the Alpha hurt?" "An old injury?" "If the Alpha goes down, what happens to the territory? The vampires have been restless…"

I sat on the stone wall. Didn't move.

I didn't follow him. Didn't ask questions.

But the moment Alaric coughed, my own wolf had convulsed deep inside me.

A strange sensation—like a dying wolf hearing the cry of its own kind and responding on instinct.

I gripped the burning claw marks on my arm and said nothing.

That night, the pain in my wolf jolted me awake.

I sat up, dug the Wolfsbane bottle from my satchel, and took a small sip.

No good. The pain receded for a heartbeat, then roared back harder than before.

I stared at the liquid left in the bottle. One more sip would suppress it. One more sip was also a lethal dose.

I screwed the cap back on and put the bottle away.

The storage room was too small. Lying here, the pain seemed amplified by the four walls. I slipped out in the dark, hoping that moving around would take my mind off it.

The Pack House was silent. Everyone was asleep.

I went out the side door and followed the outer wall toward the tree line.

Halfway there, I saw Alaric.

He wasn't sitting. He was crouched on the ground, lifting a stone with both hands, placing it on top of another.

Seven or eight stones were already stacked beside him.

I watched from a few steps away.

It took me a moment to understand what he was doing.

He was using raw physical labor to fight the pain.

When a wolf-decay episode hits, you keep your hands and back busy. Let muscle soreness drown out the agony tearing through your organs. It isn't treatment. It's just a crude distraction.

I didn't say anything.

I walked over, picked up a stone, and set it next to his.

Alaric paused for a second and looked at me.

I didn't explain.

He didn't ask.

Then he kept stacking.

Two people stacked stones in silence for half the night. No one spoke. Just the dull thud of stones meeting stones, and the distant whisper of wind.

By the time the sky began to lighten, the low wall had taken rough shape—about a foot high. Crooked, with uneven gaps between the stones, but it was standing.

My hands had two broken blisters, but the claw marks on my arm had gone quiet.

His fist had unclenched.

I stood up, brushed the dirt off my hands, and turned to leave.

As I walked away, Alaric spoke.

"Your wolf—can it still shift?"

I stopped.

Behind me, a faint sound. Alaric had reached into his pocket and placed something on top of the wall we'd just built.

I turned to look.

A small glass bottle. Empty. The inside of the glass was still stained with dried traces of deep purple.

My blood ran cold.

It was the empty Wolfsbane bottle I'd hidden at the very bottom of my satchel. Buried under old clothes, pressed into the deepest corner.

"Wolfsbane. Pure extract, taken orally." Alaric's voice was even, like he was stating a fact.

He paused.

"How long were you planning to hide this?"