Danette POV:

"She's alive!" one of the cleaners shrieked, scrambling backward so fast he tripped over his own feet.

The other one wasn't far behind, crashing into the doorframe in his haste to escape. They fled, their panicked shouts echoing down the hall.

I gasped for air, each breath a painful victory. My body was still incredibly weak, a fragile shell, but my mind was racing.

The news of my "resurrection" would spread like wildfire. I needed a story, a defense, before they came back with someone more powerful than a cleaning crew.

My gaze fell on the woman curled in the corner. Helena. My mother.

The memories told me she was once the Pack's Luna, a position of honor. But she'd lost a political battle, and after I was diagnosed as "wolfless," her spirit had shattered completely.

Fragments of the original Danette's suffering flickered through my mind—being shoved into a muddy puddle while nobles laughed, locked outside in a winter storm until her lips turned blue, a cup of scalding water thrown over her for "talking back" when she only whimpered. Each memory burned with a cold fury that wasn't entirely my own.

This was a hell of a starting point.

Using the wall for support, I struggled out of the bed. My legs trembled, barely able to hold my weight. I shuffled over to her, my movements slow and agonizing.

I knelt and gently took her hand. It was as cold as mine had been, and so thin it felt like a bird's skeleton.

"Mom?" I whispered. Her eyes remained vacant, lost in a world I couldn't see.

Normal words wouldn't reach her. I needed something powerful. A lie so profound it could break through the fog of her grief.

I took a deep breath, ignoring the ache in my ribs. When I spoke, my voice was clear and firm. "Mom, the poison didn't kill me. It cured me."

A flicker. A tiny, almost imperceptible shift in her empty gaze. Her eyes slowly, painfully, focused on my face.

I caught her hand and pressed it against my cheek. "Feel, Mom. I'm warm. I'm here."

She flinched, as if expecting a ghost. Then slowly, hesitantly, her fingers traced my jaw.

"Dani?" Her voice was a dry, rasping sound.

I nodded, forcing tears into my eyes. "It's me, Mom. I'm better now. But Seraphina—she tried to kill me. And she'll try again."

At that name, Helena's body went rigid. Her hand jerked back as if burned, and her eyes clouded with raw terror. She shook her head, curling tighter into herself. "No, no—I can't—she'll kill us both."

I gripped her shoulders, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Listen to me. The cleaners are already reporting my 'death.' By tonight, Seraphina will know I'm alive. She won't send servants next time—she'll send someone who won't fail."

Helena's breath came in shallow, hitching gasps. Her fingers twisted the frayed edge of her sleeve, a frantic, repetitive motion. For a long, agonizing moment, she said nothing. Her lips parted, then closed. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.

I held her tighter. "We have nothing left to lose, Mom. Please. Who in this Pack has the power to stand against her? Who does even she fear?"

Her trembling gradually stilled. She looked at me—really looked—and something in her eyes shifted from pure panic to a reluctant, desperate resolve.

She swallowed hard. "The Lord Regent," she whispered. "Griffith Whitfield."

Her voice dropped even lower. "He is the adopted son of the late King Alpha. A cold, ruthless Lycan. He is the true ruler of the Silverwood Dominion.Per the house’s hierarchical rules, you ought to call him uncle."

Griffith Whitfield. I repeated the name in my mind.

A memory surfaced: a towering figure against the moon, an arena falling silent at his arrival, a whispered tale of him tearing out a traitor's throat with his own teeth.

My target was set. I had to reach him before Seraphina realized I was alive—before she sent someone more competent than a pair of cleaners.

My eyes hardened with a resolve I hadn't felt since I was chasing that impossible deadline back in my old life. I was going to find Griffith Whitfield. But just getting to him wouldn't be enough. He was a man who valued leverage, not pleas. I needed something he wanted—something only I could offer. The thought flickered, half-formed, but it planted a seed.

I rose on unsteady legs, bracing myself against the wall. Helena's hand found mine, her fingers cold but clinging.

"Dani..." she whispered, her eyes pleading.

I squeezed her hand. I had a long way to go, and no one to rely on but myself.

He was my only way out of this alive. I would crawl through hell to reach him if I had to.

Danette POV:

I settled my mother back into her corner, instructing her to lock the door and pretend to be asleep. Then I found the plainest, most worn-out dress in the small wardrobe and pulled it on.

I searched my new memories for a map of the territory. The Regent's manor, a fortress of black stone, sat in the northernmost part of the Pack lands—a forbidden zone. But I didn't plan to go there directly. I needed somewhere to hide, to gather my strength before I could figure out how to approach a man like Griffith Whitfield.

I peered through a crack in the window boards. A few Omegas huddled outside, pointing and whispering at my window. The news was already spreading. One of them glanced toward the main path, and I saw her lips move—"She's not dead?"—before she scurried away, likely to report.

I had to move before the Pack leadership reacted.

I found a loose board at the back of the room, pried it open, and slipped out into the cold evening air. I stuck to the shadows of the dilapidated buildings, moving as quickly as my weak body would allow.

Every step sent a wave of dizziness through me, a reminder of the poison still lingering in my system. I pushed on, but after a few dozen yards, my vision blurred and my knees buckled. I collapsed behind a rotting barrel, retching bile onto the dirt. My hands trembled violently. For a long, terrifying moment, I couldn't see—only hear the distant shouts of someone calling for guards. I forced myself to breathe, to crawl deeper into the shadows, and after what felt like an eternity, my sight returned. I had lost precious time, and the voices were closer now.

I rounded a corner and ran straight into someone.

I looked up into the sneering face of Cassandra Valerius, another of the Pack's cruel noblewomen and a distant niece of Seraphina. Beside her stood her hulking handmaiden, Bertha Riggs. Both looked at me as if I were something they'd scraped off their shoe.

"Well, look what we have here," Cassandra drawled, covering her nose with a silk fan. "The disgrace that didn't have the decency to stay dead. And dressed like a common beggar—did you steal that rag from a corpse?"

My stomach tightened. Cassandra was one of Seraphina's cronies, and her favorite pastime was tormenting me.

I had no time for this. I lowered my head and tried to sidestep them.

Cassandra stuck out her foot to trip me. I was expecting it, and I managed to stumble past, my body lurching awkwardly.

Her face flushed with anger at my audacity to dodge. "Stop right there! Who gave you permission to wander around, you wolfless freak? You think you can just walk away? I should have you chained up and sent back to the Omega pens—everyone would thank me for putting the dead girl where she belongs."

Bertha lunged, her thick fingers reaching for my hair.

My instincts, honed by a life of navigating corporate sharks, took over. Just as her hand was about to connect, I dropped into a low squat.

Bertha's hand swiped through empty air. Her momentum carried her forward, and she crashed directly into Cassandra.

"Agh!" Cassandra shrieked as they both went down in a tangle of limbs and expensive fabric.

I didn't wait to see the result. I ran.

"Get her! Don't let her get away!" Cassandra's furious screams echoed behind me, and I heard the pounding of more feet—she had called for backup.

I pushed myself harder, my lungs burning. I plunged into a small, dense patch of woods that served as a natural barrier to the northern territory.

The sounds of pursuit were close behind—two, maybe three sets of footsteps. They were faster, stronger, and gaining.

Ahead, the path forked. One way led to open ground, where they would catch me in seconds. The other led deeper into the forbidden northern woods—toward the Regent's territory. I had no choice. The open ground meant capture and certain death; the forbidden zone meant trespassing, but at least I could think.

Without hesitation, I chose the northern path. I half-ran, half-slid down the rocky incline, ignoring the branches that tore at my dress and scratched my arms. My hands were raw and bleeding by the time I reached the bottom.

From the top of the slope, I could hear Cassandra and Bertha shouting curses, but they didn't dare descend. One of the guards shouted, "That's Regent land! Let her go—she'll be dead by morning anyway."

I had shaken them. But their words hung in the air like a death sentence.

Leaning against a tree, gasping for breath, I looked up. Through the trees, I saw it. A massive structure, built entirely of black rock, radiating an aura of cold, brutal power. It loomed against the darkening sky like a monument to intimidation.

The Regent's manor.

I had made it. But in escaping my pursuers, I had just trespassed into the most dangerous place in the entire Dominion. A chill ran down my spine as I remembered the whispers: no one entered those gates uninvited and walked out again. The Regent had no mercy for intruders, and his beasts—they said—were always hungry.

I was standing at the threshold of my last chance—and my most likely grave.