Chapter 8: When the smoke Cleared

(ELARA'S POV)

"Ronan, behind you!"

Ronan spun just in time to catch a rogue sneaking up on him. His sword met the rogue's claws with a sharp clang before he drove his shoulder into its chest, sending it crashing to the ground.

More rogues rushed at him.

"Alpha!"

Trueblood warriors intercepted them before they could close in on him.

"Push them back!" Ronan ordered. "Drive them into the forest!"

His voice rang across the village, firm and commanding.

The warning horn sounded again—one long blast. I watched in horror as the fighting slowed finally slowed, and the remaining rogues broke away, disappearing into the forest as quickly as they'd come.

No one followed.

For several long seconds, the village stood frozen.

Then it seemed like everything moved at once.

"Bring in the wounded!"

Warriors hurried through the streets carrying the injured— whilst some of them were injured themselves. Others searched every cabin, making sure no one had been left behind.

The smell of smoke lingered in the air, mixing with that blood.

I stepped aside, trying to keep out of everyone's way. This wasn't my pack. These weren't my people— I had no place among them.

Ronan emerged from the smoke moments later. I couldn't even remember him disappearing. A shallow cut marked his cheek, and blood soaked one sleeve of his shirt, but he was still standing. Relief slipped through me before I could stop it.

He caught my eye from across the courtyard. A small nod. I'm alright. Then he turned back to his warriors.

"Count everyone. Put out the fires. Double-check the eastern barricade… and send for the healer."

The last words made something tighten inside my chest. A memory flashed through my mind.

The scent of crushed herbs. Blood-stained bandages. An old healer patiently guiding my hands as I learned to stitch a wound.

"Steady hands save lives, Elara."

I blinked. The memory disappeared.

That life belonged to someone else. Someone I wasn't allowed to be anymore.

Inside the hall, the village healer was already tending to the wounded. Volunteers rushed between benches carrying water, clean cloths, and baskets of herbs, ready to help.

I lingered near the entrance, careful not to draw any attention to myself.

Then my eyes found Henry. His mother had settled him onto a wooden bench while she helped another woman fold blankets beneath the injured.

He looked very exhausted, rubbing sleepily at his eyes. I smiled to myself. At least he was safe.

I watched him for a long moment— that’s how I noticed when he frowned.

"Mama…" He called, his voice smaller than I recalled. "My leg hurts."

His mother hurried back to him. "It probably happened when you fell."

She rolled up the bottom of his trouser leg to get a better look his skin. There was a thin scratch across his ankle, nothing serious.

She smiled weakly. "You'll be alright, my boy.”

In truth, it didn’t look like something worrisome.

Yet something about it made my stomach twist. For some reason I couldn't explain, my eyes stayed fixed on the wound… unable to look away.

Henry's mother rolled the fabric back over the scratch and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.

"See?" she said softly. "It's only a little scrape."

Henry nodded, but he didn't smile. His face had gone unusually pale, which was strange— the wound wasn't deep enough to hurt that much.

His mother turned to leave again, but a quiet whimper stopped her.

"Mama…"

She looked back immediately. "What is it?"

"It burns."

Her smile faltered as she touched his cheek. "You've got a fever."

"It's probably from the fright," an elderly woman nearby offered. "Children are delicate."

Henry's mother nodded, though she didn't look convinced. Slowly, she guided him onto the bench and draped a blanket over his legs.

"I'll ask the healer to look at you." She said, then hurried across the room.

I tried to look away and mind my own business, but I couldn't bring myself to.

Something just wasn't right.

The village healer arrived a moment later, kneeling in front of Henry. "What's wrong, pup? Where does it burn?"

"My leg."

She uncovered the scratch. A shallow cut. Nothing alarming. She pressed gently around it.

Henry cried out.

The healer frowned. "Sensitive," she murmured. "But it's clean." She reached for a jar of crushed herbs. "He's exhausted. Keep him warm. This salve will help."

Henry's mother looked relieved. "Thank the Goddess."

The healer smiled reassuringly before moving to the next patient.

I remained rooted to the spot. No. No, that wasn't it. The skin around the scratch… had it always been that dark?

Henry shifted again. Another whimper escaped him.

"Mama…"

His mother held him in an embrace. "I'm here."

"It still burns."

She touched his forehead again. This time, her eyes widened. "He's hotter."

A bead of sweat rolled down Henry's temple. His breathing had become shallow and he was losing colour fast. The blanket slipped from his lap as he started trembling.

"Someone!" his mother called, panic creeping into her voice. "Please!"

The healer hurried back. She frowned as she touched Henry's forehead. "That's impossible."

Only minutes had passed. Fevers didn't rise this quickly.

She uncovered the scratch again. It had changed. Dark lines stretched beneath the skin, creeping away from it like tiny roots.

Henry cried out, clutching his mother's hand. "It hurts…" His voice cracked. "It burns…"

The healer reached for another pouch of herbs, her movements suddenly less certain. "Cold water," she ordered. "Now."

Someone rushed to obey.

I couldn't stop staring. Dark veins. Rapid fever. Burning pain.

The memory came rushing back. An old wooden table. A young apprentice standing beside an elderly healer.

"Remember this, Elara," the old woman had said as she pointed to a patient's swollen arm. "Most poisons kill slowly. But there's one that lies. It looks harmless until it reaches the blood."

My pulse quickened. No… It couldn't be.

Henry's small body jerked violently. His mother screamed. "Henry!"

The healer grabbed his shoulders, trying to steady him. "Hold him still!"

People rushed forward from every corner of the hall. The room dissolved into confusion. Everyone was shouting.

Everyone except me.

Because I knew exactly what I was looking at. And if I was right… Henry didn't have much time left.

The healer grabbed his shoulders, trying to steady him. "Hold him still!"

His tiny fingers curled painfully against his mother's dress. "Mama…" His voice was barely audible now. "It hurts…"

"I know, sweetheart." She brushed damp curls from his forehead with trembling hands. "You're going to be alright."

But the words sounded more like a prayer than a promise.

The healer quickly crushed another mixture of herbs into a paste and spread it over the wound. "Cool cloths," she ordered. "Keep his fever down."

A woman hurried over with a basin of water. The healer soaked a cloth and laid it across Henry's forehead. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then Henry cried out. His back arched off the bench and the cloth slipped onto the floor. "It burns!"

The healer froze. She had treated fevers before. Broken bones. Deep claw wounds. Even silver poisoning. But not this.

She reached for another pouch. Then another. Her movements became quicker but less certain. "No…" she muttered under her breath. "No…"

Henry's mother caught her wrist. "Please." Tears streamed down her face. "Do something."

"I am."

"You have to save him!"

The healer swallowed hard. "I'm trying."

The words settled like ice over the room. Trying. Not knowing.

My heartbeat pounded against my ribs. Dark veins. Burning pain. A fever climbing by the minute. Every lesson I'd ever learned screamed the same answer.

Wolfsbane.

I clenched my fists. No. Stay out of it. This wasn't my pack.

If I was wrong… They would never trust me again. If I was right…

My stomach twisted.

Henry let out another cry, weaker this time. His mother bent over him, sobbing openly. "Stay with me." "Please…You just came back to me."

Ronan strode inside the room, and conversations instantly died. His gaze swept over the crowded hall before settling on the small group gathered around Henry.

"What happened?" He asked, lines of concern etched into his face.

The healer stood. "I… I don't know."

The admission stunned the room. She lowered her eyes. "His condition is getting worse, but I've never seen anything like this."

Silence followed. No one knew what to do as Henry's breathing became shallow, his small body trembled uncontrollably.

I couldn't watch anymore— not when I knew. Not when every second mattered.

My feet moved before my mind caught up.

The crowd parted as I walked toward the bench.

A murmur quickly spread through the room as people recognized me. "What's she doing?"

Henry's mother looked up through tear-filled eyes as I stopped beside the healer.

The healer frowned immediately. "What are you doing?" She spat.

I looked at Henry, then at the wound. The dark veins had spread farther. We didn’t have much time left.

I drew a slow breath. "Move."

The healer stared at me as if I'd lost my mind. "Excuse me?"

"I know what's killing him." I replied, my tone conveying urgency.

A ripple swept through the room.

The healer's expression hardened. "And why should anyone believe that?"

Every eye in the hall turned toward me— even Ronan's.

I met his gaze only for a second before looking back at the dying child. Then I said the words that changed everything.

"It's wolfsbane."