The medicinal garden sat behind the healer's cabin, walled off from the kitchen wing by a hedge of rosemary my grandmother had planted before I was born. Nobody guarded it. Nobody thought an Omega on a food ban would know what half the plants inside it even were.
They didn't know I'd grown up here.
I ate dandelion greens the first morning, chickweed the second, a handful of wild sorrel folded into my sleeve on the third. Bitter, thin food. It kept me upright. My grandmother used to say a healer who couldn't feed herself off the land wasn't a healer at all, just someone who'd memorized a book. I chewed the sorrel slowly and thought about how right she'd been.
The cabin's side window faced the garden, low enough that I could see in without trying. On the second afternoon, a warrior I recognized—Kade, one of the Deltas—came in favoring his left shoulder, the joint swollen and red under his shirt.
Natasha examined him with her back to the window, her voice warm and certain through the glass. "Inflammation. Classic presentation." She turned to her shelf, selected a jar, measured out a suppressive compound—the kind that dulled swelling by shutting down circulation to the site.
Wrong.
The swelling pattern, the heat radiating off his skin, the way he flinched when she pressed near the joint and not on it—that wasn't inflammation settling. That was infection trying to surface. He needed a drawing compound, something to pull the poison up and out, not seal it in.
If she gave him what was in her hand, the infection would go deeper. Into the joint. Maybe into the bone.
I didn't move. I didn't call out.
I watched Kade take the tincture, thank her, and leave still favoring the shoulder, and I felt my wolf stir behind my ribs—not the hot fury from the training grounds, but something cooler. Patient. A predator noting distance to a target it wasn't ready to close on yet.
I pulled my log from the jacket lining and wrote it down. Date. Name. Her formula. The correct one beside it, in case anyone ever needed to compare.
The list was getting long.
—
I smelled it before I saw the tray.
I was three rooms down the corridor, my arms full of laundry, when it hit me—not a suspicion, not a hunch, but a fact, as solid and legible as if someone had written it on my skin. Wolfsbane. Trace concentration, cut into the porridge, masked under honey and cinnamon.
My feet were moving before I decided to move them.
I reached the care wing corridor as the serving girl set the tray outside my mother's door. I intercepted it with both hands, calm, efficient, the way I'd learned to move when I didn't want to be noticed.
"I'll take that in," I said. She didn't argue. Omegas ran trays all the time.
Inside, I scraped the contaminated portion into a cloth and replaced it with plain oats from my own ration, warmed on the small burner my mother kept for tea. She watched me do it without a word, her eyes tracking the movement with more clarity than I'd seen from her in days.
I logged the concentration when I got back to my cot. My hand was steady. My chest was not.
The pressure behind my ribs had a rhythm to it now. A pulse that wasn't mine, keeping time under my own heartbeat, patient and waiting.
Whatever I'd buried three years ago wasn't asleep anymore.
—
Ethan's office smelled like cedar polish and old paper, unchanged in six days, unchanged in three years. He didn't stand when I entered.
"Your mother's antidote regimen is being reviewed," he said, not looking up from the ledger on his desk. "Cost efficiency. The pack can't sustain indefinite treatment for a retired healer."
I said nothing.
"Continued care depends on your conduct." Now he looked up. "The banquet for Alpha Voss is in four days. I expect exemplary service. Complete discretion."
I held his gaze. First time since the platform.
His jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, the way it used to when he was young and unsure and trying not to show it. For half a second I saw the boy who'd once told me my hands smelled like the whole forest, like he meant it as the highest compliment he had.
Then it was gone, folded back into the Alpha.
"Understood?" he said.
"Understood," I said, and left.
In the corridor, my thumb found the inside of my wrist, pressed once, steady as stone.
He thought he'd handed me a leash.
He didn't know I'd been brewing the antidote myself for three months, hidden behind lye soap on a servant's shelf, dosed to the milligram, need nothing from his ledger at all.
Four days until the banquet.
Five weeks until the blood moon.
Something under my ribs kept its slow, patient rhythm, and waited with me.
