Chapter Twenty Nine

The halls were too quiet.

The guards had been drinking, as usual. A long day had ended with Sergius snapping at everyone, throwing a wine goblet across the room, and retreating to his study to sulk. Most of the house had learned to take his tantrums in stride.

But no one heard the whisper of the blade.

Not until it had already slit the throat of the first man.

Then the second.

The two guards were dead before their lungs could carry a scream.

Then a third....

And a fourth.

None of them had been able to make a sound.

Haspan’s men moved like shadows — eyes masked, boots soft, blades wiped clean in seconds.

They didn’t waste time.

They passed the dozing soldiers is sharp strides.

One kicked the double doors of the manor’s side chamber open and stormed inside where Sergius was sprawled, shirt open, sweat glistening on his chest. He didn’t even look up until a fist grabbed his throat and slammed him against the wall.

“You made a deal, Bezus-Froste,” a thick voice hissed.

Another figure stepped in, dragging the severed patch of a Bezus family crest — from one of the dead guards — and tossed it to the ground.

“Four of yours. Next time, it’ll be eight. And not the useless ones.”

Sergius sputtered. “I—I never sent her away.... Please, forgive me.”

“You bargained her. Your name is on the seal. Do you think Haspan forgot what you owe?”

“I’m trying—”

“Try harder.”

A scroll was tossed at his feet. The wax was fresh. The paper bore the faint stain of something unnatural.

“Deliver what is due. Or we take it from you.”

Then the shadows disappeared again. Silently.

Leaving blood, silence, and the weight of a deal Sergius had hoped would vanish.

Below was the name: Elowyn Froste.

★★★

★★★

Azpen stood at the door, knocking lightly.

“Elyan?”

No answer.

“Elyan Froste—?”

He paused.

The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the stars outside the window.

Then he heard it.

A soft, barely audible snore.

Azpen blinked.

“Elyan?” he whispered.

The snore continued — a soft puff of breath, then another. Rhythmic. Completely unguarded.

Azpen’s brow furrowed. Cadets were never this relaxed. Not unless something was off.

He stepped back.

Elowyn's flask was tucked under the cot — half-hidden.

He didn’t touch it this time. Didn’t need to.

The air in the room was too clean. No scent. No fatigue musk, no stress trail, no trace of a second-year’s hormonal fog. Just.... empty.

Too empty.

He turned and headed toward Baron’s quarters.

★★★

★★★

Baron was half-dressed, leaning against the wall, shirt loose, reading a book Azpen had handed him earlier.

He didn’t look up when Azpen entered.

“He’s sleeping,” Azpen said.

Baron’s jaw twitched. “And?”

“Snoring.”

Now Baron’s head turned. “He is snoring.”

“Like a pup after his first hunt. Deep. Peaceful. No night shifts ever do that, Baron. Not with stretch drills tomorrow.”

Baron didn’t speak.

Azpen stepped closer. “You said you smelled... nothing, right? Back when we tried to wake her last time?”

“Yes.”

Azpen folded his arms. “He's sick again. Than before. I don’t think she knows how much it's leaking.”

Baron’s stare sharpened.

Azpen added softly, “If he's really sick… you might want to ask yourself if we have a threat already inside the room.”

"You can't be sure. He just missed class for a day and his scent will return for sure " Baron said, broodingly.

★★★

★★★

Azpen crossed his arms as he leaned against the wall.

“He might be sick,” he finally said.

Baron looked up from the edge of the paper he hadn’t actually read. “From what?”

“The snoring, the silence, the blank scent. I checked—his herb had that same faint greenish color on the edge. That’s not regular fluid. I think he’s drinking something stronger than just purifying herbs, maybe. The kind they give males when their system's rejecting heat too fast or when they have bad blood.

Baron’s fingers stilled on the page. He didn’t look up, but Azpen saw the subtle tension return in his jaw.

“Herbal purge?” Baron asked flatly.

Azpen nodded. “Probably. If he’s burning up inside, that’d explain her being off lately.”

“He didn’t look sick,” Baron muttered, but his voice was low.

Azpen shrugged. “You and I both know all wolves don’t show sickness the same. Some trap it under skin. Especially the stubborn ones.”

Baron turned another page, not reading a word of it.

Then, casually — too casually — he said, “We’ll ask him what’s wrong tomorrow.”

Azpen blinked. “You want to?”

"Yes.” Baron said sharply. “Whatever....”

Azpen lifted a brow but didn’t say anything.

He watched Baron’s eyes flicker once, just once, toward the door. That tiny flicker of instinctive pull before the Alpha buried it again beneath silence.

Baron dropped the page he was pretending to read, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling.

“Elyan's probably just going through something,” he said, a bit too curt.

“Let him rest.”

Azpen tilted his head. “You sure?”

“I really don’t care, y'know.”

The lie settled between them.

Baron reached for the book again, flipping to a fresh page, eyes pretending to scan the words.

But his thumb stayed still on the margin. And the pulse in his neck beat just a little faster than before.