The purge began on a Monday morning.
Dara brought the first infusion at dawn—a dark liquid that smelled like burnt herbs and something metallic I couldn't name. She poured it into a cup and handed it to me without ceremony.
"Drink it fast," she said. "It tastes worse if you sip."
I drank it in three swallows. It burned going down, left a bitter coating on my tongue that made my teeth ache.
Then I waited.
Nothing happened for the first hour. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the window, feeling the bond-sickness pulse through me in familiar waves. The scar on my neck throbbed. The empty space where Corbin used to be ached like a bruise that wouldn't heal.
Then the cramping started.
It began in my stomach—a tight, twisting pain that spread outward through my ribs, my spine, my limbs. My hands curled into fists. My breath came short and sharp.
"Lie down," Dara said. She was already moving, pulling the blanket back, guiding me onto my side. "This is the wolfsbane breaking down. Your body's trying to expel it."
I pressed my face into the pillow and bit down hard.
The pain got worse.
It felt like my bones were grinding against each other, like every muscle was being pulled tight and twisted. I couldn't stay still. I curled up, stretched out, curled up again. Nothing helped.
Dara stayed. She didn't speak. She just sat in the chair beside the bed, one hand resting lightly on my shoulder, a steady presence that kept me tethered when the pain tried to pull me under.
I don't know how long the first wave lasted. An hour. Maybe two.
When it finally eased, I was drenched in sweat. My hands were shaking. My throat was raw from the sounds I'd been making—not screams, exactly, but close.
Dara pressed a cool cloth to my forehead. "That was the easy part," she said quietly.
I laughed. It came out broken.
---
The next three weeks blurred together.
The infusions came twice a day. The pain came in waves—sometimes sharp and sudden, sometimes slow and grinding. I learned to recognize the signs: the tightness in my chest that meant a convulsion was coming, the ice-cold burn in my veins that meant the wolfsbane was breaking loose, the bone-deep ache that meant my body was trying to rebuild itself from the inside out.
I stopped sleeping through the night. The pain woke me every few hours, and even when it didn't, the nightmares did.
I dreamed about the rejection ceremony. About Corbin's blank face. About my mother's hands folded calmly at her sides while the bond tore through me.
I dreamed about my wolf—caged, clawing, screaming.
Sometimes I woke up calling Corbin's name.
Not in longing. In rage.
The first time it happened, I came awake with my fists clenched in the sheets, his name on my lips like a curse. Dara was there—she was always there during the worst nights—and she didn't say anything. She just handed me water and waited until my breathing steadied.
The second time, I didn't call his name. I just lay there in the dark, feeling the fury coil tight in my chest, and thought: *I hope you feel this. I hope the ghost of the bond hurts you every single day.*
Then I went still.
Because underneath the rage, underneath the pain, something else was stirring.
It wasn't my wolf. Not fully. Not yet.
But it was there.
A flicker. A heartbeat that wasn't entirely my own.
I pressed my hand to my chest and felt it—faint, furious, alive.
---
By the fourth week, the worst of the purge had passed.
The pain was still there, but duller now. Manageable. I could move without feeling like my bones were going to shatter. I could eat without my stomach rebelling. I could think clearly for the first time in weeks.
Dara cleared me to leave the healing ward.
I didn't go far at first. Just the hallways. The courtyard. I walked slowly, testing my balance, relearning what it felt like to move without pain.
Silvercrest was bigger than Thornridge. Cleaner. The wolves I passed nodded at me—polite, distant, not unfriendly but not warm either. I was a stranger here. A bond-sick refugee with no pack and no wolf.
I didn't mind.
On the fifth day, I found the healing ward.
It was busy—wolves coming and going, minor injuries from training, a pup with a sprained ankle. I stood in the doorway and watched Dara work. She moved with the same calm efficiency she'd shown me, her hands steady, her voice low and reassuring.
She looked up and saw me. Raised an eyebrow.
"You need something?"
"Can I help?" The words came out before I'd thought them through.
Dara studied me for a moment. Then she nodded toward a cabinet in the corner. "Bandages need rolling. Supplies need sorting. You know how to do that?"
I did. I'd run Thornridge's pack house for years. I knew every medical supply by heart.
I rolled bandages. I sorted supplies. I didn't speak unless spoken to.
Dara didn't ask why I was there. She just let me work.
I came back the next day. And the day after that.
On the eighth day, a man appeared in the doorway. Tall, lean, with sharp eyes and the easy confidence of a wolf who knew exactly where he stood in the pack hierarchy. He watched me for a moment, then crossed to where Dara was checking inventory.
They spoke in low voices. I couldn't hear the words, but I saw Dara glance at me once, then nod.
The man left without saying anything to me.
Later, Dara told me his name was Owen Hale. Henrik's Future Beta.
"He noticed you," she said.
I kept sorting bandages. "Is that a problem?"
"No." Dara's tone was neutral. "He told Henrik you're going to be extraordinary."
I went very still.
Dara didn't elaborate. She just went back to her work.
That night, when I returned to my quarters, I found the room had been changed.
Not the furniture. Not the layout. Just the assignment.
I was in a different room now. Same size. Same simple furnishings.
But this one had a window facing the forest.
I stood at the window and looked out at the trees—dark pines stretching toward the sky, their branches swaying in the wind. I could hear them. The rustle of leaves. The creak of wood.
I'd mentioned it once. To Dara. In passing. A throwaway comment about missing the sound of trees.
I pressed my hand to the glass and felt something tight in my chest loosen.
Then I caught the scent.
Honeyed cedar and iron.
Faint. Drifting through the hallway outside my door.
I turned and stared at the closed door.
The scent lingered for a moment. Then it was gone.
I stood there in the silence, my hand still pressed to the window, and felt the thing inside me stir again.
Not my wolf.
Something else.
Something I refused to name.
