Chapter 27

SARA 

Alpha Tristan stared at me from the depths of his sweat-stained bed, his sheer desperation finally transforming into something colder, sharper, and far more calculated. He realized that physical threats against me were losing their potency; I had already embraced the idea of my own death.

"Nayomi is right," he whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "I cannot force your hands to move with the skill they possess... but I can certainly force your heart to yield."

With a trembling finger, he signaled to the guards stationed at the heavy oak doors. A moment later, a concealed side door groaned open, and two burly men dragged in a figure that made the breath catch painfully in my throat.

It was Harlan.

But it wasn't the proud, sturdy man who had once stood up for me against the cruelty of the pack. He was now a mere shadow of his former self—hollow-cheeked, his skin a sickly, pallid grey, and his hair matted with the filth of the earth. His eyes were vacant, staring at nothing as if the darkness of his imprisonment had seeped into his very soul. His clothes were little more than tattered rags, and he carried the heavy, cloying scent of the deep, lightless cells where the air never moves and hope goes to die. He looked utterly broken, like a candle flickering in a violent draft that was mere seconds away from going out forever.

"Harlan," I breathed, my heart shattering as I instinctively reached out toward him.

Tristan leaned forward, a cruel, triumphant smile touching his grey, bloodless lips. "He’s been kept in solitary confinement since the moment he chose a slave over his Alpha. He hasn't eaten a real meal in days. He hasn't seen the sun. And I promise you, Sara, he won't see it ever again. If you don't do what is required... I will have him executed right here, in front of you. His blood will be the very last thing you see before I send you back to the hole to rot alongside his ghost."

I looked at Harlan. His head lolled weakly to the side, and for a split second, our eyes met. There was no demand in his gaze, no silent plea for me to save him. There was only a weary, tragic acceptance. He had suffered immeasurably for me. He was dying because he had tried to remain human in a pack of heartless beasts.

Compassion, sharp and agonizing, flared in my chest, overrunning my own desire for vengeance.

"Stop," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and sorrow. I looked at Tristan, my hatred warring with the desperate need to save the only true friend I had left in this world. "A bargain, then. Set him free. Release him from this pack entirely, let him go wherever he wishes with his dignity intact, and I will heal you."

Tristan hesitated, his eyes flickering with a moment of doubt before he nodded weakly. "He will be fed and escorted safely to the neutral borderlands. Or," he added, his voice regaining a sliver of authority, "I could have him reinstated to his rightful place. The same place of honor he belongs. Harlan has always been loyal until you came along and corrupted his mind. I'm beginning to think that corrupting noble things is your particular specialty, Sara. It would be his choice, of course. You have my word as Alpha."

"Your word is worth nothing to me," I spat, the words dripping with venom. "But his life is worth everything. Do it. Bring him out of those chains." I wasn't entirely sure which choice Harlan would take—whether he would choose the pack that broke him or the uncertainty of the wild—but I simply couldn't bear to see him locked in that airless cell for another minute.

"Nice. Now that we understand each other, let's get to the fun part," Alpha Tristan said, and I felt a heavy, cold knot of dread form in the pit of my stomach.

I moved closer to Tristan's bed, the air growing thick with the metallic tang of fresh blood and the faint, acrid scent of a deep-seated infection. His side was a gruesome mess—a jagged, angry gash from a cursed blade, festering with a dark rot that had begun to spread toward his vital organs.

"This looks far worse than I imagined," I murmured, leaning in to inspect the damage.

"Yes, we've done everything we can with traditional medicine, but the wound simply isn't responding to any known treatment," Nayomi explained. She had been the pack healer since the time of Tristan's father, and even her vast knowledge had reached its limit.

"That’s because the wound was made with a magical blade. Even a slight nick with such a weapon would mean an agonizing death eventually if the magic isn't purged," I said, a flicker of pride warming my voice despite the circumstances. "I'll need one of your girls to work with me. I can't do this alone."

"Yeah, take Rita. She’s a big fan of yours, actually. She was the one who insisted to the Alpha that you were the only one who could do it," Nayomi offered, moving to the other side of the bed so she would be able to observe my every move.

"How do you know so much about magical blades?" Alpha Tristan asked, a genuine spark of hope finally igniting in his bloodshot eyes.

"A personal secret, and one I intend to keep. Now hold still," I murmured, my voice becoming steady and professional despite the chaos in the room. This wasn't just a surgical procedure; it was a high-stakes battle against time, magic, and decay.

"Rita," I called out, glancing over my shoulder at the young girl hovering nearby. Her hands were clasped nervously in front of her. "Fetch me the scalpel first—the silver-edged one, the one enchanted to ward off further corruption. Move quickly." She nodded frantically and rummaged through the leather medical kit, eventually placing the cool, vibrating handle in my palm.

"Take this," I said, handing Tristan a thick leather strap.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked arrogantly, and for a moment, I wondered how I had ever ended up entangled with such a pompous, ungrateful prick.

"Bite down on it. This next part is going to hurt more than the wound itself." I could feel Yvonne's burning gaze at my back, but I didn't care about her jealousy. It was a small, satisfying victory to know that the "slave" she constantly berated possessed a higher purpose and a calling that she could never hope to achieve.

I tested the razor edge of the scalpel against my thumb, feeling the faint, rhythmic hum of the magic woven into the silver. Tristan winced and let out a muffled groan as I pressed the blade to the inflamed, blackened skin around the wound, but he bit down hard on the leather strap I’d given him.

With careful, surgical precision, I sliced away the first strip of rotten flesh. The dead tissue peeled back like a spoiled fruit rind, releasing a pungent odor that made Rita gag. Blackened, parasitic veins pulsed faintly beneath the surface, and I could sense the dark magic lingering there, trying to cling to his life force.

"Forceps next," I said, my tone sharper now, entirely focused on the task. The apprentice handed them over without a word, and I used them to grasp and excise deeper chunks of the necrotic tissue. The rot came away in foul-smelling clumps that I dropped into a ceramic basin filled with purifying salts.

Finally, fresh, bright red blood began to well up—clean blood, at last. I irrigated the deep area with a vial of pure moonwater, watching with satisfaction as the enchanted liquid fizzed and hissed against any lingering taint.

Once the wound was purged, I began the process of bandaging him, wrapping layers of fine linen soaked in a cooling herbal salve around his torso. I made sure it was tight enough to support the muscles, but loose enough to allow him to breathe. "I think we are done here," I declared, stepping back and wiping my bloodied hands.

"He still doesn't look good to me," Yvonne protested, her voice laced with suspicion.

"Are you a healer now too, Yvonne?" Harlan’s voice cracked through the room, answering her before I could even open my mouth. He was sitting on a chair nearby, looking slightly better after a glass of water. "If she says she’s done, then she’s done. Let the woman breathe."

Hearing Harlan defend me so openly was a beautiful thing; he was my guardian angel, and he had paid a terrible price for that role.

"Rita, listen carefully," I said, turning back to the apprentice. "Prepare a tincture of willow bark for the pain—use the standard dose, twice daily. Mix it with an elderflower elixir to boost his blood regeneration, and add exactly three drops of phoenix tear serum to mend the internal scarring magically. That should have him on his feet in a matter of days, not weeks."

The young girl's face dropped in confusion. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I... I don't know how to prepare any of those mixtures," she confessed, looking down at her feet.

"Don't worry, child, I will teach you," Nayomi, her teacher, said with a look of immense pride. She then turned her gaze toward Alpha Tristan. "If this girl had not come, Alpha, no one in this territory would have been able to help you. The method she just used is one so ancient and complex that many modern healers have forgotten it entirely."

"Thank you, Nayomi." I offered the old woman a small, genuine smile. "Monitor his temperature closely; if the runes I’ve etched into the stitches begin to fade, call me immediately."

"Nayomi, how do you properly thank someone who has saved your life?" Tristan murmured. His voice was no longer a deathly rattle, but was beginning to sound strong and resonant once more. He looked over at Yvonne, who was staring at him with a volatile mixture of relief and poisonous jealousy.

Nayomi looked at me and then back at the Alpha, her eyes twinkling. "If you ask me, I think she has earned significantly more than a stay in a dungeon for this service."

"Very well," Tristan said, sitting up with great effort. "You will be moved out of the hole immediately, Sara. You will be given a room in the servants’ quarters—it is small, but it has a window that looks out over the gardens. You will have the freedom to move as you please within the compound, provided you report your location at all times. But make no mistake: if you attempt to contact Rune or any of his spies, you'll be back in the dungeon before the sun sets."

Yvonne’s face contorted into a sour, hateful mask. "Tristan, surely you aren't—"

"And," Tristan added, his gaze flicking sharply to her, "since Ms. Yvonne is so concerned with your discipline, you will report to her as well as to me. Every morning and every evening. If you fail to appear, your 'freedom' ends instantly."

I looked over at Harlan, who was finally being led away toward the kitchens to be fed a proper meal. He was alive, and he was safe for now. That was the only victory I could truly claim in this house of horrors.

"I’ll report," I whispered, my fingers unconsciously touching the cold silver collar that still encircled my neck. "But don't think for a single second, Tristan, that this makes us even. We are far from settled."