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?"