I started noticing the wolfsbane on the third day.

Bryce called a gathering to address the elders about border patrol rotations. Standard pack business. He sat at the head of the table with his hands folded, looking appropriately grave, and halfway through the Beta's report he went very still.

His fingers trembled. Just his fingers. The rest of him stayed perfectly composed.

"Alpha?" Old Marla leaned forward. "Are you—"

"I'm fine." His voice came out tight. "Just a moment. It passes."

The tremor spread to his wrist. He gripped the edge of the table. Everyone watched. I watched too, standing by the sideboard with the tea service, and I caught it — a faint bitter edge underneath his usual cedar scent. Sharp. Medicinal. Wrong.

I knew that smell. I'd studied herbs for years while the pack assumed I was just learning to make better stew.

Wolfsbane. Low-grade, carefully dosed. Enough to suppress a shift without killing the wolf outright.

I poured his tea and brought it to him. Set it down gently. "Here, love."

He looked at me. Too much eye contact again. The tremor stopped.

"Thank you," he said.

I smiled and stepped back.

That night I opened my journal and wrote down the time, the duration of the episode, and the compound I'd identified. Then I flipped back through the past three days and checked my notes. He'd had two other episodes. Both times right before or after meeting with Isadora.

I closed the journal and pressed it back under the floorboard.

***

The pack healer came twice in the next week.

Bryce summoned him after another episode during dinner — this one longer, more visible, his whole arm shaking as he tried to lift his fork. His mother made that practiced sound of distress again. The younger wolves looked genuinely worried.

The healer examined him in the study. I brought water and stayed near the door, quiet, attentive. The healer checked his pulse, his eyes, pressed fingers to the glands at his throat.

"Your vitals are stable, Alpha," the healer said slowly. "But the tremors—"

"Are getting worse." Bryce's voice cracked beautifully. "I can feel him dying. My wolf. He's… fading."

The healer frowned. "I can prepare a tonic. Strengthening herbs. But if the bond itself is—"

"Do what you can."

I watched the healer's face. He didn't believe it either. But he was a pack healer. He served the Alpha. He nodded and left.

Bryce waited until the door closed. Then he looked at me.

"You're still here."

"I told you," I said gently. "I won't leave you while you're suffering."

His jaw tightened. He turned away.

I left the water on his desk and walked out.

***

Buster started growling on the eighth day.

Bryce called another gathering — this one in the main hall, more formal, with most of the pack present. He wanted witnesses. He stood at the front and spoke about the pain, the slow deterioration, how hard he was fighting to stay strong for them.

Halfway through, he gripped the podium. The tremor came. Right on cue.

Buster, lying near my feet, lifted his head. His ears went flat. A low rumble started in his chest.

I put a hand on his neck. "Shh."

The dog ignored me. He stood, hackles rising, and the growl got louder. He was staring straight at Bryce.

People noticed. Heads turned. Marla whispered something to the wolf beside her.

Bryce's tremor stopped. He looked at the dog. Then at me.

"Aurora, control your animal."

"He's not mine," I said quietly. "He's ours."

Buster took a step forward, still growling. His nose worked the air. He could smell it. The wolfsbane. The lie.

Bryce's mother stood. "Perhaps the dog should be removed. This is hardly appropriate during—"

"He's fine." I pulled Buster back gently. "Come on, boy. Let's go."

The dog resisted. He planted his paws and kept growling, and I had to half-drag him out of the hall. The pack watched us go. I heard the murmurs starting before the door even closed.

***

Bryce came to my room that night. Didn't knock. Just walked in.

"The dog goes to the Omega kennels."

I was sitting on the floor with my journal. I looked up.

"What?"

"You heard me." He stood in the doorway, backlit, his shadow long across the floor. "He's undermining the pack's confidence. Every time I have an episode, he reacts like I'm a threat. It's confusing people."

"He's a dog, Bryce. He doesn't understand—"

"I don't care what he understands. He goes tomorrow."

I stood slowly. "He chose me. You know that. From the first week."

"Then you should have trained him better."

He turned and left.

I stood there with my journal in my hands and listened to his footsteps fade down the hall. The mark on my neck was still cold. It had been cold for eight days. I'd stopped checking.

I opened the journal and wrote down what he'd said. Word for word. Then I closed it and slid it back under the floorboard.

***

They came for Buster in the morning.

Two Deltas. They had a lead and a directive from the Alpha. Buster saw them coming and pressed against my legs, whining.

I knelt down. Put my hands on either side of his face.

"It's okay," I whispered. "It's okay, boy."

It wasn't okay.

They clipped the lead to his collar and pulled. He dug in, claws scraping stone, straining back toward me. The sound echoed through the hall. People stopped to watch. Again.

I pressed two fingers to the mark on my neck. The cold, dead thing under the scar tissue. I'd done it without thinking. Old habit. Old reassurance that didn't work anymore.

I lowered my hand.

Buster was still fighting the lead, still whining, and one of the Deltas yanked hard enough that the dog yelped. My chest went tight. Not grief this time. Something else. Something that had been pressing at a locked door for eight days.

I watched them drag him around the corner. Watched until I couldn't see him anymore. Listened until the claws stopped scraping.

Then I turned and walked back to my room.

I didn't cry. I didn't shake. I opened the journal, wrote down the time and the witnesses, and then I sat on the floor and let the thing beneath my ribs press a little harder.

Whatever mercy I'd been holding in reserve — whatever small, stupid part of me that had still been mourning the bond — went out like a candle.

Bryce wanted a performance. Fine. I'd give him one he'd remember.

The bond channel was supposed to close. That's what happens after a rejection — the link severs, the mark goes cold, and whatever thread connected you to your mate dissolves like smoke.

Mine didn't.

I noticed it on the ninth day. I was lying on the floor of my room, staring at the ceiling, when I felt it — a faint hum at the edge of my consciousness. Not the warm pulse of an active bond. More like a door left slightly open. A crack.

I sat up slowly.

I'd been a wolf long enough to know what a severed bond felt like. This wasn't severed. It was damaged, yes. Hollow. But not gone.

I pressed two fingers to the mark on my neck. Still cold. Still dead. But somewhere beneath it, that hum persisted.

I could leave it open. Let it stay ajar. Bryce thought it was closed — he'd spoken the vow, felt the break, moved on. He had no reason to check. No reason to guard himself.

I opened my journal and made a note. Then I lay back down and waited.

***

The first transmission came that night.

I was half-asleep when Bryce's voice bled through the crack.

"—told her I'd consider the eastern hunting grounds. She actually thinks I'm serious."

The Beta's voice, warm and lazy. "You're not giving up territory."

"Of course not. But Isadora likes the game. Makes her feel in control. Once we're mated, Ironcliff's resources are mine anyway. What's a few acres?"

They both laughed.

I didn't move. I lay there in the dark and listened until the transmission faded. Then I got up, lit a candle, and wrote it down. Every word. Time, date, context.

Three entries now. Three separate fragments of his unguarded mind.

I closed the journal and slid it under the floorboard.

***

I left for Ironcliff at dawn.

I dressed carefully. Not the Luna's formal wear I used to favor. Something simpler. Modest. A pale gray dress that had seen better days, practical boots, my hair pulled back in a loose braid. I looked like what I was supposed to be now — a discarded mate, humble and grieving.

I packed a basket with herbs. Real ones. Valerian, chamomile, elderflower. Things that actually helped with stress and sleeplessness. I wasn't lying about the contents. Just the reason I was bringing them.

The walk to the Ironcliff border took two hours. I timed it for mid-morning, when the border checkpoint would be staffed but not overwhelmed. When there would be witnesses.

I was right.

Alpha Gareth Vane stood near the stone markers, speaking with his Gamma. A contingent of Ironcliff warriors flanked the checkpoint — six of them, all armed, all watching me approach.

I stopped ten feet from the border and set the basket down. Lowered my eyes.

"I'm Aurora," I said quietly. "Former Luna of Silverfang. I'm here to request an audience with Isadora Vane."

Gareth turned. He was a large man, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that didn't need an Alpha tone to command a room. His eyes swept over me — the worn dress, the basket, the careful way I kept my head slightly bowed.

"An audience," he repeated. "For what purpose?"

I let my voice tremble. Just a little. "I've brought herbs. For Alpha Bryce. His condition is worsening. I thought — I hoped — someone in Ironcliff might know of a healer, or a remedy, that could help him."

One of the warriors shifted. I caught the glance he exchanged with the man beside him.

Gareth's expression softened. "Your mate rejected you."

"Yes, Alpha." I looked up, let my eyes fill. It wasn't hard. The mark was still cold. "But his wolf is dying. I can't — I won't leave him to suffer alone. Even if he doesn't want me anymore."

The Gamma murmured something to Gareth. The Alpha's jaw tightened.

"You walked two hours to bring him herbs."

"I'd walk farther if it helped."

Silence. The kind that meant people were deciding whether you were genuine or insane.

Gareth looked at one of his warriors. "Fetch Isadora."

The warrior nodded and left.

I stayed where I was, hands folded, eyes down. Playing the part. The warriors watched me. Gareth watched me. I could feel their judgment shifting — not pity, exactly, but something close. Respect for devotion, maybe. Or discomfort at watching someone humiliate themselves so thoroughly.

Isadora appeared five minutes later.

She came through the trees with her Gamma at her side, dressed in Ironcliff's formal black and silver. Her expression was carefully neutral. She stopped at the border and looked at me.

"Aurora."

"Isadora." I picked up the basket. Held it out. "I brought herbs. For Bryce. I thought you might know someone who could—"

"You came all this way to bring my rival's ex-mate medicine." Her voice was flat. Unreadable.

"He's not my rival," I said softly. "He's dying."

Gareth stepped forward. "Isadora. Hear her out."

Isadora's gaze flicked to her father. Then back to me. I saw the calculation behind her eyes. She couldn't refuse. Not here. Not in front of her father and his warriors. Not when I'd just walked two hours to beg for help for the man who'd discarded me.

She exhaled slowly. "Fine. We'll speak privately."

She turned and walked into the trees. I followed.

***

We stopped in a clearing fifty yards past the border. Isadora's Gamma stayed at the tree line, far enough for privacy but close enough to intervene if needed.

Isadora turned to face me. "You have five minutes."

I set the basket down. Reached into my pocket. Pulled out the small recording device I'd been carrying since the second mind-link transmission.

Her eyes narrowed. "What is that?"

I pressed play.

Bryce's voice filled the clearing. Laughing. Unguarded. "—swear to god, the old wolves were crying. I could have asked them to eat their own boots—"

The Beta's voice. "You sold it, man."

"Isadora messaged. Said the moment the Omega is gone, Ironcliff's doors are open."

I stopped the recording.

Isadora stared at me. Her face was perfectly still.

Then she laughed.

Not polite. Not performative. A real laugh — cold, sharp, genuinely amused.

"Oh, that's beautiful," she said. "He actually recorded himself."

"He didn't know the bond channel was still open."

She tilted her head. That small, birdlike assessment I'd heard about. "You've been listening this whole time."

"Yes."

"And you came here to—what? Threaten me?"

"No." I met her eyes. "I came here to offer you an alliance."

Silence.

Isadora studied me for a long moment. Then she smiled. Thin. Precise.

"Tell me what you want."

I told her.