Danette POV:
"She's alive!" one of the cleaners shrieked, scrambling backward so fast he tripped over his own feet.
The other one wasn't far behind, crashing into the doorframe in his haste to escape. They fled, their panicked shouts echoing down the hall.
I gasped for air, each breath a painful victory. My body was still incredibly weak, a fragile shell, but my mind was racing.
The news of my "resurrection" would spread like wildfire. I needed a story, a defense, before they came back with someone more powerful than a cleaning crew.
My gaze fell on the woman curled in the corner. Helena. My mother.
The memories told me she was once the Pack's Luna, a position of honor. But she'd lost a political battle, and after I was diagnosed as "wolfless," her spirit had shattered completely.
Fragments of the original Danette's suffering flickered through my mind—being shoved into a muddy puddle while nobles laughed, locked outside in a winter storm until her lips turned blue, a cup of scalding water thrown over her for "talking back" when she only whimpered. Each memory burned with a cold fury that wasn't entirely my own.
This was a hell of a starting point.
Using the wall for support, I struggled out of the bed. My legs trembled, barely able to hold my weight. I shuffled over to her, my movements slow and agonizing.
I knelt and gently took her hand. It was as cold as mine had been, and so thin it felt like a bird's skeleton.
"Mom?" I whispered. Her eyes remained vacant, lost in a world I couldn't see.
Normal words wouldn't reach her. I needed something powerful. A lie so profound it could break through the fog of her grief.
I took a deep breath, ignoring the ache in my ribs. When I spoke, my voice was clear and firm. "Mom, the poison didn't kill me. It cured me."
A flicker. A tiny, almost imperceptible shift in her empty gaze. Her eyes slowly, painfully, focused on my face.
I caught her hand and pressed it against my cheek. "Feel, Mom. I'm warm. I'm here."
She flinched, as if expecting a ghost. Then slowly, hesitantly, her fingers traced my jaw.
"Dani?" Her voice was a dry, rasping sound.
I nodded, forcing tears into my eyes. "It's me, Mom. I'm better now. But Seraphina—she tried to kill me. And she'll try again."
At that name, Helena's body went rigid. Her hand jerked back as if burned, and her eyes clouded with raw terror. She shook her head, curling tighter into herself. "No, no—I can't—she'll kill us both."
I gripped her shoulders, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Listen to me. The cleaners are already reporting my 'death.' By tonight, Seraphina will know I'm alive. She won't send servants next time—she'll send someone who won't fail."
Helena's breath came in shallow, hitching gasps. Her fingers twisted the frayed edge of her sleeve, a frantic, repetitive motion. For a long, agonizing moment, she said nothing. Her lips parted, then closed. A tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.
I held her tighter. "We have nothing left to lose, Mom. Please. Who in this Pack has the power to stand against her? Who does even she fear?"
Her trembling gradually stilled. She looked at me—really looked—and something in her eyes shifted from pure panic to a reluctant, desperate resolve.
She swallowed hard. "The Lord Regent," she whispered. "Griffith Whitfield."
Her voice dropped even lower. "He is the adopted son of the late King Alpha. A cold, ruthless Lycan. He is the true ruler of the Silverwood Dominion.Per the house’s hierarchical rules, you ought to call him uncle."
Griffith Whitfield. I repeated the name in my mind.
A memory surfaced: a towering figure against the moon, an arena falling silent at his arrival, a whispered tale of him tearing out a traitor's throat with his own teeth.
My target was set. I had to reach him before Seraphina realized I was alive—before she sent someone more competent than a pair of cleaners.
My eyes hardened with a resolve I hadn't felt since I was chasing that impossible deadline back in my old life. I was going to find Griffith Whitfield. But just getting to him wouldn't be enough. He was a man who valued leverage, not pleas. I needed something he wanted—something only I could offer. The thought flickered, half-formed, but it planted a seed.
I rose on unsteady legs, bracing myself against the wall. Helena's hand found mine, her fingers cold but clinging.
"Dani..." she whispered, her eyes pleading.
I squeezed her hand. I had a long way to go, and no one to rely on but myself.
He was my only way out of this alive. I would crawl through hell to reach him if I had to.
