I didn't sleep after the Banquet. I sat at my desk and stared at the herb journal until the words blurred together. When dawn broke, I was still in the same chair, still wearing yesterday's dress.
The summons came at eight.
A Delta knocked twice and announced through the door: "Pack council convenes in twenty minutes, Luna. Your presence is required."
I changed into a simple gray dress and pulled my hair back. My hands were steady. That surprised me.
Seraphine was still silent. That didn't.
---
The council chamber was full when I arrived. Beta Dorian sat at Archer's right. Gamma Thorne stood near the back wall. A dozen senior wolves lined the long table, and Peyton occupied the chair directly across from Archer—the seat traditionally reserved for visiting Alphas.
No one looked at me as I took my place at the far end.
Archer stood. His Alpha aura filled the room like smoke. Not aggressive. Just present. A constant reminder of who held power here.
"This council is convened to formalize pack structure," he said. His voice was calm. Professional. "Peyton Kelley has been recognized as my chosen mate. Effective immediately, she is exempt from all Luna Protocols and granted full access to pack resources."
I watched his mouth form the words. They didn't sound real.
Peyton smiled softly, hands folded on the table. She wore a cream-colored dress that made her look delicate. Innocent.
Dorian cleared his throat. "Alpha, the Protocols were established to—"
"The Protocols serve the pack's needs," Archer cut in. "Those needs have changed."
No one argued. No one ever did.
Archer's gaze shifted down the table. Not quite landing on me. "Additionally, we're implementing updated guidelines for Luna Ariana Evans."
My spine went rigid.
"First: no access to healer stores without written authorization from myself or Peyton. Second: no shifting on pack grounds without prior approval from the Alpha office. Third: no departure from Ironveil territory without an Alpha-office-approved escort."
The room was silent.
I counted my breaths. One. Two. Three.
"These measures ensure pack safety and resource management," Archer continued. "Any questions?"
Dorian's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
No one spoke.
"Good. Dismissed."
Chairs scraped back. Wolves filed out. I stayed in my seat until the room emptied.
Peyton was the last to leave. She paused at the door and glanced back at me. Her pale blue eyes held something I couldn't name.
Then she smiled and walked out.
I sat alone in the council chamber and stared at the table. The wood grain blurred. My vision was doing something strange.
It took me a full minute to realize I was crying.
---
The symptoms started three days later.
I woke up exhausted. Not the normal fatigue of a restless night—something heavier. My limbs felt weighted down, like I was moving through water.
I forced myself through morning routines. Shower. Dress. Hair.
In the small kitchen attached to my quarters, I found tea waiting on the counter. A delicate porcelain cup, steam rising from the surface. A note beside it in Peyton's looping handwriting: *Thought you might need this. –P*
I picked up the cup. The scent was familiar—chamomile and mint, my usual blend.
I drank it.
Twenty minutes later, my mouth tasted like metal. My legs trembled when I stood. I gripped the edge of the counter and waited for it to pass.
It didn't.
I made it back to my desk and opened a fresh page in my herb journal. I wrote the date. Then, in careful block letters: *Morning fatigue. Metallic taste. Leg weakness. Onset approximately 20 minutes post-tea.*
I color-coded the entry in blue. Physical symptoms, unknown cause.
The next morning, the tea was waiting again. I drank it again.
The symptoms returned. Stronger this time.
I documented everything. Time of onset. Duration. Severity on a scale of one to ten. I treated myself like a clinical case because that was the only way I knew how to hold myself together.
I didn't connect it to the tea. Not yet.
I just kept drinking.
---
On the fifth day, someone knocked.
I opened the door to find Cassia Wren standing in the corridor. She was small, thin, with nervous hands that never stopped moving. An Omega. One of the lowest-ranked wolves in Ironveil.
She glanced over her shoulder, then stepped inside quickly.
"Luna," she whispered. "I need to tell you something."
I closed the door. "What is it?"
Cassia's hands twisted together. "Your mother. Eleanora Evans. She's—she's sick."
The world tilted.
"What?"
"She's at the Crescent Moon healer ward. Neighboring pack. She's been there for weeks." Cassia's voice was barely audible. "She didn't want you to know. But it's bad, Luna. Really bad."
My chest constricted. "How do you know this?"
"I have a cousin there. She's a healer. She sent word through the network." Cassia met my eyes. "Your mother's deteriorating. They don't know why."
I couldn't breathe.
"I'm sorry," Cassia whispered. "I thought you should know. Even if—" She broke off, glancing toward the door. "Even if it's dangerous to tell you."
I grabbed her hand. "Thank you."
She nodded once, then slipped back into the corridor and disappeared.
I stood in the center of my quarters, shaking.
My mother was dying. And I couldn't leave Ironveil territory without an Alpha-approved escort.
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling.
Seraphine stirred faintly in my consciousness. Not words. Just a soft, aching whimper.
I walked to my desk and opened the herb journal. I wrote the date at the top of a new page.
Then I wrote: *Mother critically ill. Crescent Moon territory. Access denied.*
I set the pen down and stared at the words until they stopped making sense.
Outside my window, the training grounds stretched across Ironveil. Wolves moved through drills. The sun was shining.
Everything looked normal.
Nothing was.
