The days after the branding blurred together in a way that had nothing to do with time and everything to do with absence.

I couldn't shift. I couldn't mind-link. I couldn't scent-track in the dark—the tracker's skill I'd possessed since childhood, the instinct that had made me Lead Tracker before I was twenty, gone like someone had reached into my chest and pulled out the wiring.

I tested the limits every morning. Reached for my wolf. Found silence. Tried to catch a scent trail through the corridor—nothing. Just air. Just emptiness.

What remained: I could still read a room. Still map exits. Still hold the notebook in my boot.

I held onto that.

Nicholas forbade Willow from treating the scar. He didn't issue the order in front of me—he was smarter than that—but I knew because Willow wouldn't meet my eyes when I went to the healer's den on the second day. She kept her hands on her workbench and her voice very quiet.

"The Alpha has instructed me to prioritize warrior injuries," she said. Her fingers trembled against the mortar. "I'm sorry, Luna."

I didn't ask her to disobey. I just nodded and left.

The wound healed badly. Ridged. Silver-white. The wolfsbane had done its work—the scar tissue was thick and permanent, visible above any collar I owned. I stopped trying to hide it after the third day. Let it show. Let every pack member who passed me in the corridor see exactly what their Alpha had allowed.

Nicholas told the pack I'd been injured in a patrol accident. Some believed him. Most didn't ask questions.

Brock Romero sat in the security room every morning, checked that the recording was still on the server, and did not act. I didn't know he existed yet. I didn't know anyone had witnessed what happened in that corridor except Nicholas and Mia and me.

I was confined to the Alpha quarters. Not explicitly—Nicholas never issued a formal lockdown order—but the ranked warriors who appeared at every exit made the message clear. I was allowed to move within the pack house. Nowhere else.

I waited for Catherine's antidote dose.

I was counting hours.

---

The antidote did not arrive on schedule.

Catherine's doses came every forty-eight hours, administered by Willow in the healer's den at dawn. The protocol had been unbroken for six months. I knew the schedule better than I knew my own patrol rotations.

On the first missed day, I went to Nicholas's office. He was reviewing border reports with Ethan. I stood in the doorway and waited until he looked up.

"My mother's antidote," I said. "It wasn't administered this morning."

Nicholas glanced at Ethan, then back at me. His expression was calm. Administrative.

"The healer is occupied with a warrior's injury," he said. "It'll be handled tomorrow."

I looked at him. At the man whose dark cedar scent used to make my wolf sing. At the mate bond that still pulled at my ribs even though my wolf was silent.

"Catherine's dose can't be delayed," I said quietly. "The wolfsbane builds in her system. You know that."

Nicholas set down his pen. "Willow will prioritize it tomorrow. You're dismissed, Aria."

Ethan wouldn't look at me. He stared at the border map like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

I turned and left.

I recorded the missed dose in my notebook. Date. Time. Nicholas's exact words.

On the second day, I went to the healer's den directly.

Two of Nicholas's ranked warriors were blocking the entrance. Not Willow's choice—their posture made that clear. They stood with their arms crossed, faces blank, eyes fixed on the wall behind me.

I stopped three feet away. "I need to see the healer."

Neither of them moved.

"My mother's antidote is overdue," I said. My voice was flat. Tracker's report tone. "Willow needs to administer it now."

The taller warrior—Marcus, one of my old patrol partners—shifted his weight. His jaw tightened. But he didn't step aside.

"Alpha's orders, Luna," he said quietly. "No access until further notice."

I looked at him. At the man I'd trained beside for two years. At the wolf who used to ask my advice on tracking techniques.

He would not meet my eyes.

I turned and walked back to the Alpha quarters. I did not run. I did not beg Nicholas again.

I recorded the blockage in my notebook. Warriors' names. Timestamp. The exact phrase: *Alpha's orders.*

The case was building.

On the morning of the third day, a junior pack member knocked on my door.

He was young—maybe nineteen, barely ranked. His hand shook when he held out the folded note. He wouldn't look at my face. Just stared at the floor and whispered:

"Message from the healer's den, Luna."

I took the note. He left before I could open it.

The handwriting was Willow's. Precise. Careful. The kind of script you used when you needed the words to be undeniable.

*Catherine Castillo died in the healer's den at dawn. The poison overwhelmed her system. I am so sorry.*

I read it twice. Then I folded it in half and slid it into my notebook.

The pressed wildflower—the one from Catherine's destroyed birth pack, the purple moon-bell from the meadow that didn't exist anymore—was still tucked inside her antidote log. Willow had written that at the bottom of the note.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the wall.

My wolf was silent. My mother was dead. The mate bond pulled at my ribs like a fishhook.

I didn't cry. I counted my breaths instead. One. Two. Three.

Nicholas appeared in the corridor outside my room an hour later.

He didn't knock. Just stood in the open doorway with his hands in his pockets, his face calm and administrative. The same expression he used for patrol reassignments.

"Catherine's funeral will be handled by the Omegas," he said. His voice was measured. Reasonable. "It's pack protocol for unranked deaths. The ceremony will be tomorrow at dawn."

I looked at him.

At the man whose dark cedar scent once made my wolf sing. At the man who had authorized every dose of my mother's antidote for six months. At the man who had blocked the healer's den for sixty hours while the wolfsbane built in Catherine's bloodstream.

I understood, with the absolute clarity of a woman who had finally stopped hoping, that my mother had not been killed by the poison.

She had been killed by a forty-eight-hour delay.

Nicholas turned to leave.

I spoke quietly. No inflection. Tracker's report tone.

"I know what you did."

He paused in the doorway. His shoulders tensed.

He did not turn around.

He left.

In the empty room, I opened my notebook to a clean page.

I wrote the timestamp of Catherine's death beside the timestamp of the blocked healer's den access. I wrote the names of the warriors who had stood guard. I wrote Nicholas's exact words: *It'll be handled tomorrow.*

The case was complete.

I closed the notebook. Tied it shut. Slid it back into my boot.

My hand went to my throat. The ridged scar was warm under my fingers. The place where my wolf used to live was silent.

I looked at the door Nicholas had just walked through.