The healing wing's administrative corridor smelled like antiseptic and wolfsbane. I had memorized that smell over the past six months. Six applications. Six denials. Tonight was the seventh.

Archer was already there when I arrived. My mate. My Alpha. He stood over the allocation list with his back to me, shoulders straight, one hand resting on the desk. The posture of a man who had already made his decision and was simply performing the ritual of announcing it.

I stopped in the doorway. Through the dying mate bond, I felt nothing from him. No warmth. No recognition. Just the same cool distance I had been feeling for months now, like standing near a wall.

"Aspen." He said my name without turning around. His voice carried that measured Alpha tone he used for pack business. Not for me. Never for me anymore.

I stepped into the corridor. My wolf stirred weakly inside me, then settled back into the gray fog that had been claiming her inch by inch. Silver Rot was eating away at the bond between us. Soon there would be nothing left. Soon she would be gone, and I would follow.

"I'm here for the allocation decision," I said quietly.

Archer turned then. His face was composed. Handsome. Distant. He looked at me the way he looked at budget reports.

"I've reviewed your application," he said. He gestured to the list on the desk. My name was written there in the healer's neat script. Seventh applicant. Aspen Whitley, Luna of Silverfang Pack. Condition: Silver Rot, advanced stage.

He picked up a pen.

I watched him strike through my name with a single clean line.

"Pack law is clear," Archer continued, setting the pen down with careful precision. "Article Forty-Seven, Section Three: An Alpha may not allocate rare healing resources to his own mate. To do so would compromise the absolute fairness required of pack leadership. I cannot make exceptions, even for you. Especially for you."

He had said these exact words six times before. Same cadence. Same tone. Same performance of principled authority.

I waited for the pain. The sharp stab of betrayal I had felt the first time. The second time. But there was nothing now. Just numbness spreading through my chest like frost.

"I understand," I heard myself say.

Archer's jaw tightened slightly. Through the bond, I felt something flicker. Irritation, maybe. Or relief that I wasn't going to argue this time.

"The Moonbloom Extract will be allocated according to medical priority and pack hierarchy protocol," he said. "The healer will post the recipient's name by morning."

I nodded. I had stopped asking who received the doses after the third denial. I had told myself I didn't want to know. That it would only make the pain worse.

I had been lying to myself.

"You're dismissed," Archer said, already turning back to the desk.

I should have left then. Should have walked away. But my feet wouldn't move.

"Who is it for?" The words came out before I could stop them.

Archer went very still. "That's not your concern."

"I'm your mate." My voice sounded strange. Flat. "I'm dying. Doesn't that make it my concern?"

He turned to face me fully then, and for just a moment I saw something in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or just annoyance that I was making this harder than it needed to be.

"The decision has been made," he said firmly. "Gareth will escort you out."

As if summoned, Gareth Cole appeared in the doorway behind me. Archer's Gamma. A good soldier. He nodded respectfully. "Luna. This way, please."

I let him lead me away from the administrative corridor, down the hall toward the main healing wing exit. But as we passed the private chambers, I stopped.

Through the glass partition, I could see everything.

Archer was sitting on the edge of a bed. Lilia Voss lay against the pillows, her dark hair spread across the white fabric. She looked tired but comfortable. Archer held her hand with one of his, and with the other he was administering the Moonbloom dose. The pale blue liquid caught the light as it flowed into her IV line.

He stroked her hair gently. Tenderly.

Through the mate bond, I felt it. The warmth of his mind-link flowing toward her. Soft words I couldn't hear but could feel. Comfort. Affection. Care.

The same bond that transmitted nothing but ice when he looked at me.

Lilia's scent reached me even through the glass. Expensive floral perfume. The kind imported from three territories away. I had smelled it on Archer's clothes for months. I had told myself it meant nothing.

I had been lying to myself about that too.

"Luna?" Gareth's voice was quiet beside me. Not unkind. Just doing his job.

I turned away from the glass. My hands were steady. My face was calm. Inside, something that had been cracking for months finally broke clean through.

But I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just walked.

Gareth escorted me all the way to the healing wing's outer corridor, then left me there with another respectful nod. Alone in the dim hallway, I stood for a long moment, listening to my own breathing.

Then I walked to the Omega section at the far end of the wing.

Maisy's cot was in the corner. The young Omega pup was asleep, curled on her side. I knelt beside the cot and reached underneath, my fingers finding the worn leather ledger I had hidden there weeks ago.

I pulled it out and sat on the cold floor with my back against the wall.

The ledger contained everything. Every Moonbloom allocation for the past eight months. Every application. Every denial. Every recipient. I had kept it like a Luna should—organized, thorough, administrative.

Now I opened it and saw what I had been too faithful to see before.

Every dose had gone to Lilia Voss. Every single one.

Mild blood fatigue, the medical notes said. A condition that required rest and iron supplements. Not Moonbloom Extract. Never Moonbloom Extract.

But Lilia's father was Alpha Seraphine Voss of the Ironridge Pack. And Archer had been building an alliance with Ironridge for over a year.

The Moonbloom wasn't medicine. It was currency.

And I was the price.

I sat there on the floor, the ledger open in my lap, and began to draft my submission to the Lycan King's tribunal. My hands didn't shake. My wolf, barely conscious now, stirred once as if in approval.

I wrote until the words blurred.

Sometime after midnight, I felt a small warm presence beside me. Maisy had woken up. She didn't ask questions. She just sat down next to me on the cold floor and held out a cup of wolfsbane tea.

Her ration. Split in half.

I took it. Our fingers touched briefly.

"Thank you," I whispered.

Maisy tucked herself against my side and said nothing. Just sat there, a small Omega pup offering the only kindness I had received in this place in months.

Two rooms away, my mate was soothing another woman through a mind-link I could still feel like a knife between my ribs.

I drank the tea. It was bitter.

I kept writing.

Three days after the seventh denial, I woke up and couldn't feel my wolf at all.

I lay in bed, reaching inward the way I had done every morning since I was thirteen, searching for that familiar presence. The one who had a name—Willow—and a voice and opinions about everything. The one who had been my constant companion, my other half, my proof that I was whole.

Nothing.

I counted to sixty. Slowly. Then I felt her flicker back—a candle flame in a draft, there for three desperate heartbeats before vanishing again into the gray fog.

"Willow?" I whispered into the empty room.

Silence.

I got out of bed. My hands were steady as I dressed. I had learned, over the past months, that panic was a luxury I couldn't afford. Panic required energy. I had none to spare.

The mate bond pulsed faintly at the edge of my consciousness. Archer was awake. I could feel him—not his location exactly, but his emotional state. Calm. Content. The particular quality of contentment that came from a pleasant morning, a warm bed, a mind at ease.

I felt nothing like that.

I made my way to the healing wing for my daily check-in. The corridors were quiet at this hour. Most of the pack was still asleep or just beginning their morning routines. I preferred it this way. Fewer eyes. Fewer questions I didn't want to answer.

The healer on duty was a middle-aged woman named Iris. She had kind eyes and a professional demeanor that never quite concealed her pity. She took my vitals without comment, noted the readings in her chart, and gave me the same instructions she had been giving me for weeks.

"Rest. Hydrate. Avoid stress."

As if stress were something I could schedule around.

I thanked her and left. On my way out, I passed the private chambers. The door was closed, but Lilia's scent lingered in the hallway like expensive smoke. Floral. Cloying. Everywhere.

My olfactory sensitivity—once sharp enough to distinguish individual pack members from three corridors away—now registered scents only in fragments. Archer's scent, the one that used to make my wolf perk up with instant recognition, barely registered at all anymore. But Lilia's perfume cut through everything. It was the only smell that seemed to intensify as my other senses dulled.

I wondered if that was the Silver Rot's idea of a joke.

That evening, there was a pack gathering in the great hall. Mandatory attendance for all ranked wolves. I almost didn't go. But absence would have required an explanation, and explanations required energy I didn't have.

I arrived late and stood near the back. The hall was full—warriors, families, Omegas serving food and drink. Archer stood at the front with his Beta, discussing some territorial matter I couldn't focus on. His voice carried across the room with easy authority. The Alpha tone that made everyone listen.

I found a spot against the wall and tried to be invisible.

Cali was there. I saw her before she saw me—a tall, muscular she-wolf with her hair pulled back in a tight braid. She was talking to a group of younger warriors, her gestures confident and sharp. She had earned her rank through hard training and real skill. I respected that, even though she had made it clear she didn't respect me.

She turned and her eyes landed on me. Something flickered across her face. Not quite contempt. Not quite pity. Something in between.

She said something to the wolves around her. I couldn't hear the words, but I saw their reactions. A few glanced my way. One smirked. Another looked uncomfortable.

Cali's voice rose just enough to carry. "A Luna who can't shift isn't much of a Luna, is she?"

The words hung in the air. A few wolves nearby went quiet. Others pretended they hadn't heard. No one challenged her.

I stood very still. My face stayed calm. Inside, I filed the remark in the same mental ledger where I kept everything else. Every denial. Every allocation. Every cruelty dressed as honesty.

Cali held my gaze for a moment, then turned back to her group. Dismissed me without another word.

I stayed for another twenty minutes, then left. No one stopped me.

Two days later, Elaine came to visit.

I was in the Omega section when she arrived, sitting on the floor with my back against the wall. Maisy was asleep on her cot nearby. The healing wing was quiet except for the distant murmur of voices from the main corridor.

Elaine appeared in the doorway carrying a small basket. She smiled when she saw me—the warm, unhurried smile of a woman who had been Luna long enough to know that rank meant nothing in moments like this.

"I brought tea," she said, settling onto the floor beside me with surprising grace for a woman her age. "The kind you like. The healer mentioned they'd run short."

She unpacked the basket. A jar of honey. A tin of herbal tea. A soft blanket folded with careful precision.

I watched her hands as she worked. They trembled slightly. Just a faint tremor, the kind most people wouldn't notice. But I had spent months cataloging the small signs of deterioration in my own body. I knew what I was seeing.

Her wolf aura flickered at the edges. There and not there. Like mine.

"Elaine," I said quietly.

She looked up. Her eyes were clear and calm.

"Are you—" I stopped. Started again. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," she said. Her voice was steady. Practiced. The voice of a woman who had spent decades reassuring people. "You're the one we should be worried about."

She poured tea into two cups and handed me one. The steam rose between us, carrying the scent of chamomile and something else I couldn't name.

"You should focus on your recovery," she continued gently. "Let me worry about everything else."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to ask her directly about the tremor in her hands, the flicker in her aura, the way she had positioned herself in the Omega section instead of the main wing where a former Luna should have been welcomed.

But she was looking at me with such deliberate warmth that I understood: she was asking me not to ask.

So I didn't.

We drank our tea in silence. Elaine stayed for an hour, talking about small things—the weather, the upcoming harvest, a funny thing one of the pups had said. Her voice filled the quiet space with the kind of gentle presence that required nothing from me except to sit and listen.

When she finally rose to leave, she touched my shoulder briefly.

"You're stronger than you think," she said.

I watched her walk away. Her steps were measured and steady. But I saw the way she paused at the doorway, one hand bracing against the frame for just a moment before continuing down the corridor.

That night, alone in my room, I felt Archer through the mate bond. He was with Lilia again. I could feel the warmth of his mind-link flowing toward her like a river I couldn't dam. Soft words. Comfort. Affection.

The bond transmitted everything. Every tender thought. Every gentle reassurance.

I lay in the dark and felt my wolf flicker. There. Gone. There. Gone.

I reached for the ledger I kept hidden under my mattress and added a new entry.

Elaine Hale. Former Luna. Wolf deterioration suspected. Seventh applicant?

I stared at the words for a long time.

Then I closed the book and waited for morning.

I spent the next three nights expanding the ledger.

The healing wing kept records. Not the official allocation lists that Archer signed—those were locked in his office. But the healers tracked inventory. Doses administered. Dates. Patient names. Medical justifications. They had to. It was basic administrative protocol.

I had been Luna long enough to know where those records were kept. A filing cabinet in the back office, unlocked during day shifts, secured at night. I waited until the evening rotation changed, then walked in like I belonged there. Because I did. I was still Luna, even if my mate had forgotten what that meant.

The records confirmed everything.

Lilia Voss. Eight doses over six months. Medical justification: mild blood fatigue, supplementary treatment recommended. Recommended. Not required. Not life-saving. Recommended.

I cross-referenced the dates against my own applications. Every time I had been denied, Lilia had received a dose within forty-eight hours. Every single time.

I traced the approval signatures. Archer's, always. But beneath his, in smaller script, were countersignatures from the healers. And beneath those, in the notes section, were references to communications with Ironridge Pack. Coordination of care, the notes said. Inter-pack medical cooperation.

I pulled the correspondence logs next. They were filed separately, in a drawer marked administrative. Letters between Archer and Alpha Seraphine Voss. Polite. Professional. Full of the careful language of alliance-building. Territorial agreements. Trade routes. Resource sharing.

And tucked into the third letter, a single line: We appreciate Silverfang's continued support of our daughter's recovery.

I sat on the floor of the back office with papers spread around me like evidence at a crime scene. Because that's what it was. A crime dressed in pack law and political courtesy.

I made copies. Two sets. One I hid in the Omega section, tucked into the lining of Maisy's spare blanket. The other I folded into a waterproof pouch and buried in the small garden outside the healing wing, beneath the wolfsbane plants no one touched.

When I returned the original files to their proper places, my hands were steady. My wolf flickered once, faint approval in the gray fog, then faded again.

I walked back to my quarters as the sun rose. No one saw me. No one stopped me.

I was still invisible.

The pack welfare meeting was held in the council room three days later. Mandatory attendance for ranked wolves. I arrived early and took my usual seat at the table—Luna's chair, to Archer's right.

He didn't look at me when I sat down. Just nodded slightly, the way he might acknowledge any pack member fulfilling a procedural obligation.

The agenda was routine. Territory patrols. Harvest logistics. Omega section staffing. I waited through the first three items, then raised my hand when the healer's report concluded.

Archer's eyes flicked to me briefly. "Luna?"

"I'd like to propose an increase in the Omega section's healing wing rations," I said. My voice was calm. Professional. "Current allocations are below the minimum recommended standard. Several Omegas are showing signs of nutritional deficiency. It's affecting their ability to perform assigned duties."

I had documentation. I slid a single-page summary across the table. Iris, the healer, had helped me compile it. The numbers were clear.

Archer picked up the page. He didn't read it. Just held it for a moment, then set it down with careful precision.

"Resource allocation is constrained," he said. His tone was measured. Final. "We need to prioritize critical needs. Omega rations are sufficient for basic function."

"They're not," I said quietly. "The data shows—"

"The decision is made." He straightened the stack of papers in front of him. The same ritual I had seen him perform a dozen times. The physical signal that this conversation was over before it began.

Across the table, Gareth Cole kept his eyes on his own documents. His pen moved across the page, taking notes that didn't need to be taken.

No one else spoke.

I sat back in my chair. "Understood," I said.

The meeting continued. I stayed silent for the remaining items. When it ended, I filed out with the others. Archer left first, already in conversation with his Beta about something unrelated.

That evening, I added the ruling to my ledger. Date. Proposal. Denial. Justification given. Actual reason: none that served the pack's welfare.

The evidence was growing. Piece by piece. Denial by denial.

I was building something. I just didn't know yet if it would be enough.

Elaine came to the healing wing again four nights later.

She arrived after the evening meal, when the corridors were dim and most of the pack had retreated to their quarters. I was sitting with Maisy in the Omega section, helping her practice reading from a children's book someone had donated. The pup was curled against my side, sounding out words with fierce concentration.

I heard Elaine's footsteps before I saw her. Slower than usual. More careful.

She appeared in the doorway empty-handed. No basket. No tea. No folded blanket.

That was the first sign.

She smiled when she saw us, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She lowered herself onto the floor beside me with visible effort, one hand bracing against the wall.

Maisy looked up from her book. "Luna Elaine," she said shyly.

"Hello, Maisy," Elaine said. She used the pup's name without hesitation, the way she always did. "That's a good book. One of my favorites when I was your age."

Maisy beamed and went back to reading.

Elaine and I sat in silence for a long moment. I could feel the tremor in her hands now even without looking. Her wolf aura flickered at the edges, there and not there, like a candle in a draft.

"Aspen," she said quietly.

I turned to face her.

Her eyes were clear. Calm. The same deliberate composure I had seen the first time she visited. But beneath it, I saw something else now. Something I recognized because I had seen it in my own reflection.

Fear.

"I've always thought you were the strongest Luna Silverfang has ever had," she said.

The words hung between us. Not a compliment. A statement. Delivered with the weight of something that needed to be said now, before the chance was gone.

"You've carried more than anyone should have to carry," she continued. "And you've done it with grace. With dignity. I want you to know that."

My throat tightened. "Elaine—"

"I mean it," she said firmly. She reached over and squeezed my hand once. Her fingers were cold. "Don't forget that. No matter what happens."

She stayed for another twenty minutes, talking to Maisy about the book, asking gentle questions that made the pup glow with pride. When she finally rose to leave, she moved slowly, one hand pressed briefly against the wall for balance.

I watched her walk down the corridor. She paused at the corner, just for a moment, her palm flat against the wall. Then she rounded the corner and disappeared.

Maisy tugged on my sleeve. "Is Luna Elaine okay?"

I looked down at the pup's worried face. "I don't know," I said honestly.

That night, I lay in bed and reached for my wolf. She flickered back, faint and distant, like an echo of an echo.

"Willow?" I whispered.

Silence.

Through the mate bond, I felt Archer. Content. Warm. His mind-link flowing toward someone who wasn't me.

I turned onto my side and stared at the wall until morning came.