Soft Mattress

POV: Elara

A sudden, violent gasp tore through my throat.

My chest forcefully expanded, drawing in a massive, burning lungful of air that tasted shockingly sweet, entirely clear of mold and the suffocating stench of copper and rot.

I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs as I threw my hands out in front of me to catch my fall. Instead of hitting freezing stone or rusted iron, my palms sank into the impossibly soft surface of a feather mattress.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat as the sheer sensory shock of my surroundings flooded my mind. I wasn't suffocating. The air moving past my lips didn't burn. I wasn't shivering from a deep, bone-chilling dampness that settled into my lungs. Instead, a gentle, warm breeze fluttered through the room, carrying the distinct, comforting scent of fresh lavender and pine needles.

Slowly, trembling violently, I lifted my hands in front of my face.

The light hitting them was blindingly bright, pouring through a large glass window across the room. I stared at my skin. It was smooth. Pale. Entirely unbroken. There were no raw, infected sores around my wrists. There were no traces of dirt, dried blood, or black rot beneath my fingernails.

My breath hitched as I reached up to touch my head. My hair, which had been falling out in tangled patches, was now long, thick, and perfectly silky, cascading over my bare shoulders in silver-white waves.

"No," I breathed, my voice loud and clear, completely devoid of the bloody rasp of a dying prisoner.

I lunged out of the bed, my bare feet hitting a warm hardwood floor. The room was large, decorated with white lace curtains and elegant furniture.

I knew this place. I had spent eighteen years of my life in it. It was my old bedroom at the Voss pack house.

I scrambled toward the full-length vanity mirror in the corner, my knees shaking so badly I nearly collapsed before I reached the glass. When I finally caught my balance and looked up, the reflection staring back at me completely shattered my reality.

The girl in the mirror was eighteen years old. Her violet-grey eyes were bright, wide, and perfectly healthy, completely free of the sunken, yellow tint of the aconite poison Cassian's guards had fed me. Her skin was flawless, radiating the youthful strength of a high-ranking wolf.

I reached a shaking hand to the side of my neck, pulling back the thick silver waves of my hair.

The skin was pristine. There was no charred, blackened rejection scar marring my flesh. There was only a faint, silver-tinged crescent birthmark tucked safely behind my left ear, completely hidden from the world.

My gaze drifted away from the mirror, landing on the small wooden desk beside the vanity. Resting on top of it was a wax-sealed parchment envelope, stamped with the official insignia of the Royal Crescent Pack; a roaring wolf beneath a crescent moon. Beside it sat a small, leather-bound desk calendar.

I stepped closer, my fingers brushing against the gold ink on the invitation before shifting to the calendar. My eyes locked onto the date stamped in red ink.

Four years ago.

A chilling realization settled into my bones, instantly freezing the panic in my chest. The Moon Goddess hadn't just ignored my dying curse. She had answered it. She had thrown me backward across the timeline, dropping me directly into the past.

It was the morning of the Great Mating Ceremony. The exact night everything had begun to spiral into ruin.

Suddenly, the door handle clicked, turning slowly.

The sound made my inner wolf, who had been completely silenced and broken in my past life, spark back to life with a low, defensive growl in the back of my mind.

The door swung open, and Rhea entered the room carrying a heavy silver tray with a steaming teapot and a plate of fresh pastries. She was wearing her simple, neat pack healer trainee uniform, her face bright and full of life.

Seeing my friend who had died in my  because she was trying to protect me, now smiling almost broke my composure entirely. The memory of her execution outside my dungeon window flashed behind my eyes, a brutal contrast to the warm, living girl standing before me now. The urge to fling myself forward and hold her until my arms grew numb was roaring in my chest.

But I forced myself to stay calm. I clamped down on the wild, chaotic grief rising in my throat. If I broke down now and acted like a madwoman, I would ruin the only chance I had to rewrite this nightmare. I needed to protect her, and protection required absolute control.

Rhea noticed my wide, unblinking stare and set the tray down on the desk with a soft chuckle. "Goodness, Elara, you look like you've just seen a ghost."

Maybe, because I am.

She continued, "Did you sleep terribly? I brought the chamomile blend you like to help with the pre-ceremony nerves."

I forced a tight, small smile onto my face, anchoring myself to the wood of the vanity table beneath my knuckles. The timeline had reset. She was here. I was here.

"I'm fine, Rhea," I said, my voice steady. "Just a passing thought."