The healer's examination room smelled like antiseptic and something sharper underneath—wolfsbane, maybe, or just the clinical scent of truth being measured in vials and slides.
Seraphine worked in silence. She was older than most of the Council wolves, with silver threading through dark hair pulled back in a braid that reached her waist. Her hands were steady as she drew blood from my arm, labeled the vial, and set it aside with the others. Six vials now. I'd stopped counting after four.
"How long since you last shifted before the tribunal?" she asked.
I looked at the ceiling. White plaster, cracks spreading from the corners like spiderwebs. "Never. That was the first time."
Her pen stopped moving across the chart. "You're twenty-four."
"Yes."
"And you've been with Ironvale since you were eighteen."
"Yes."
She made a note. The pen scratched loud in the quiet. She moved to the examination table and pressed two fingers against the side of my neck, just below where Jude's mark should have been and wasn't. Her touch was clinical, but I still flinched.
"Muscle atrophy," she said quietly. "Consistent with forced dormancy. Your wolf was there. She was just—" She paused, choosing the word carefully. "Restrained."
I swallowed. My throat felt tight. "By what?"
Seraphine didn't answer immediately. She took another sample—saliva this time, a swab that tasted bitter even after she pulled it away. She labeled it. Filed it. Then she turned and met my eyes.
"Wolfsbane," she said. "Chronic exposure. At least six years, possibly longer. The compounds are still in your system. Your liver is compensating, but the damage markers are clear."
The room tilted slightly. I gripped the edge of the table.
"Six years," I repeated.
She nodded. "Deliberate dosing. The concentration levels suggest regular, measured administration. Not accidental. Not environmental."
I thought about the herbal supplements. The ones Jude had given me every morning with breakfast, the brown glass bottle with the handwritten label. *For your health,* he'd said. *You work too hard. This will help.*
I'd taken them for six years.
"Can you prove it?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
Seraphine's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened. "I already have. The report goes into the Council's investigation file today. It will have his name on it."
I nodded. I didn't trust myself to speak.
She handed me a small card with a follow-up appointment date written in neat script. "You'll need monitoring. The wolfsbane will clear your system fully in another few weeks, but we need to track the process. And Mia—" She waited until I looked at her. "What was done to you has a name. It's called suppression poisoning. It's illegal under Lycan law. The evidence is documented now."
I took the card. My fingers were steady. "Thank you."
She nodded once and turned back to her samples.
I walked out of the examination room, down the corridor, and into the empty hallway outside the medical wing. Then I stopped. I pressed my back against the stone wall, cold seeping through my shirt, and breathed.
Six years. He'd poisoned me for six years. And I'd never known.
I breathed until my lungs stopped burning. Then I straightened and kept walking.
---
The Blackmere estate smelled like cedar and rain and something older—power that had soaked into the stone over generations. It was massive. The main house sprawled across a hilltop, surrounded by dense forest and high walls that didn't look like decoration. The gates had opened for me without a word. The guards had nodded. No one had asked for identification.
Cillian met me at the entrance. He didn't smile, but his posture was open—hands at his sides, stance relaxed. "Your quarters are in the east wing. Private entrance. The staff knows not to disturb you unless you ask."
I nodded. I didn't know what else to do.
He led me through hallways lined with portraits of wolves I didn't recognize and tapestries that probably cost more than Ironvale's entire annual budget. My quarters turned out to be a suite—bedroom, sitting room, bathroom with a tub deep enough to drown in. The furniture was dark wood, simple and well-made. A fire was already burning in the hearth.
"The command staff meets in the south hall at dawn," Cillian said. "You're welcome to attend. Not required."
I looked at him. He was standing in the doorway, not crossing the threshold. Giving me space.
"Mind-link is open if you need anything," he added. His voice was quiet. Not a command. An offer.
I nodded again. He left.
I locked the door, then immediately unlocked it. I couldn't explain why. I just knew I couldn't sleep with it locked.
Dinner arrived on a tray an hour later—roast chicken, vegetables, bread still warm from the oven. I checked it for wolfsbane before I could stop myself. Lifted the chicken, sniffed the sauce, examined the bread for discoloration. Nothing. It was clean.
I ate alone at the small table by the window. The food was good. I barely tasted it.
That night, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jude's face in the ceremonial hall. Heard his voice saying my name in that Alpha tone that didn't work anymore.
I didn't sleep.
Sometime after midnight, I heard a soft sound outside my door. Scratching. I got up, opened it a crack, and found Ghost sitting in the hallway. The three-legged wolf-dog looked at me with dark, steady eyes.
I didn't invite him in. I just left the door open.
He limped inside, circled twice, and lay down on the rug beside the bed. Within minutes, his breathing evened out into sleep.
I got back into bed. This time, I closed my eyes.
I still didn't sleep much. But I didn't feel alone.
---
Cillian came to my quarters three days later, just before dawn. I heard the knock—soft, respectful—and opened the door to find him standing there with a territorial map tucked under one arm and a coffee cup in his other hand. The coffee was cold. I could smell it.
"May I come in?" he asked.
I stepped back. He entered, moved to the table by the window, and spread the map across its surface. It was old, hand-drawn, with territorial boundaries marked in ink and pencil annotations crowding the margins. I recognized it immediately. I'd seen maps like this a hundred times in alliance meetings.
Cillian set the coffee cup down. "Three border packs have requested contact since the tribunal. They were allied with Ironvale under your coordination. They're not anymore."
I looked at the map. My eyes found the territories automatically—Riversend, Thornback Ridge, Clearwater Basin. I'd negotiated treaties with all three. Spent weeks in their pack houses, learning their concerns, finding common ground.
"They want to meet with Blackmere," Cillian continued. "Specifically, they want to meet with you."
I traced the border between Riversend and Ironvale with one finger. The line was clean, no disputes. I'd made sure of that.
"What do they want?" I asked.
Cillian was quiet for a moment. When I looked up, he was watching me with an expression I couldn't read.
"They want to know if you're interested in doing what you did for Ironvale, but for us instead," he said. "Alliance coordination. Treaty negotiation. The work you're good at."
I looked back at the map. Every line on it was familiar. I'd drawn several of them myself.
"Yes," I said.
Cillian nodded. He reached for the cold coffee cup, then seemed to notice it for the first time. He glanced at the pot on my windowsill—I'd made a fresh batch an hour ago—and refilled the cup without asking. Then he set it back down in front of me.
"I'll arrange the meetings," he said.
He left the map on the table and walked to the door. Ghost, who'd been asleep by the hearth, lifted his head and watched him go.
I picked up the warm coffee cup. It was the first thing anyone had given me in days that I didn't check for poison.
I drank it anyway.
