Aurora POV:
The roads blurred. I don't remember the drive—just the white line unspooling ahead, the engine coughing, the sun climbing higher until the glare through the windshield turned harsh and white. By the time the clinic came into view, it was already midday, the heat shimmering off the asphalt in waves.
The beat-up Honda coughed its way into a parking spot outside the clinic. The noon sun stabbed at my sleepless eyes. I killed the engine and leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, the cheap plastic warm against my skin.
Sterling Manor felt like a fever dream. This was my reality.
The smell of antiseptic and quiet desperation hit me the moment I walked through the clinic's sliding doors. It was a world away from the sandalwood and power that still clung to my clothes.
I found my mother in a small, sterile room at the end of the hall. Martha Peterson wasn't my mother by blood, but she was the only one I'd ever known. She'd taken me in when I was a lost kid, loved me without question. Now, a chronic illness was slowly eating away at her, leaving her frail and tired.
A weak smile touched her lips when she saw me. "Rory. You look exhausted."
"I'm fine, Mom." I forced a smile back, taking her thin, cool hand in mine. The skin was like paper. "Just wanted to make sure you were feeling better today."
I waited for the nurse to finish her rounds, then asked for some privacy. "I'm just going to give her a little massage. A technique from back home."
The nurse nodded, accustomed to my odd requests. As soon as the door clicked shut, I reached into the worn canvas tote bag I always carried. I pulled out a small silk pouch filled with dried herbs. They smelled of earth and moonlight.
Placing my palm gently on Martha's abdomen, I closed my eyes. I let my breath slow, reaching for the quiet place inside me. I began to chant, the ancient syllables a low hum in my throat. This was the true reason I was here.
A faint, pale green light, almost invisible in the harsh fluorescent glare, seeped from my palm into her body. It was the healing art my master, Iris, had taught me. A skill lost to time, unknown even to the most powerful Pack Healers. It wasn't a gift of blood or wolf; it was a discipline of will and knowledge.
Martha's pained expression softened. Her breathing evened out.
The effort left me feeling drained, a familiar hollowness in my chest. But this time, something else came with the exhaustion—a strange, creeping heat prickling beneath my skin. My pulse stuttered, then raced, a sudden flush climbing up my throat. I pressed a hand to my chest, frowning. Probably just the aftereffects of whatever had been in that drink last night. Nothing more.
My own face was pale in the reflection of the window. I packed away my herbs, kissed Martha's forehead, and told her to rest.
As I stepped back into the hallway, a commotion erupted near the entrance. Shouts. A scream.
A sleek black Cadillac was parked haphazardly at the curb. Two men in expensive suits were trying to restrain a teenage boy who was thrashing like a wild animal. His eyes were blazing red, and a guttural snarl ripped from his throat.
"The tranquilizer isn't working!" an older man in a doctor's coat yelled, his face a mask of panic. I recognized him—Dr. Alan Foster, a well-known physician from a neighboring Pack. "His wolf is trying to tear him apart from the inside!"
This was "Moon Madness." A rare, violent psychosis that could strike young werewolves, especially during their first few years after the change.
The boy, Tristan, no older than fifteen, threw off the bodyguards with a surge of unnatural strength. He slammed into a metal cart of medical supplies, sending instruments clattering across the concrete. Patients and staff scattered, their faces terrified.
Dr. Foster was helpless, watching in horror as the boy clawed at his own face.
I sighed. This was the last thing I needed.
Reaching back into my tote, my fingers found a small, embroidered sachet. I ignored the bodyguard who tried to block my path, his eyes wide with alarm.
"Ma'am, get back!"
I walked directly toward the raging boy. I didn't try to fight him. I didn't say a word. I simply held the sachet out and dangled it in front of his face.
A calming scent of moon-petal and cedarwood filled the air.
Tristan's wild movements froze. The red in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sliver of terrified blue. His gaze locked onto the sachet.
"It's okay," I said, my voice low and steady, almost a hum. "Everything is going to be calm now. Just breathe."
The feral snarls subsided. The tension drained from his body. He slumped to the ground, his chest heaving with great, gulping breaths, looking like nothing more than a lost, scared kid.
Silence.
Everyone stared, their mouths agape. Dr. Foster was the first to move. He rushed forward, his hand grabbing my arm. His eyes were wide with disbelief.
"How did you do that?" he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper. "That scent... that calming technique... What Pack are you from? Are you a Healer?"
I pulled my arm from his grasp, my expression cold and distant. "I just know a few old remedies."
I didn't offer any other explanation. I turned and walked away, pushing through the stunned crowd and leaving the chaos behind me. I could feel Dr. Foster's eyes boring into my back—questions he had no right to ask, and a sighting he would not forget.
