Chapter 3 Freye

Rhea’s POV

“Speak to me, baby.” I rushed, cupping her cheeks in my palms. “Please. Mummy’s here. Breathe.” I rocked her back and forth until my whole body shook like a leaf in a wild storm.

“Help me. Help us.” The words tore from me, raw and unfiltered, a sound that did not feel like mine. Freye was having one of her episodes.

“M… M… M…” Freye panted. Her breath thinned and thinned until it barely sounded like anything at all. Her eyes rolled up as if the world were scraping clean from her skull. Her skin was fever-hot. It felt like molten iron under my hands.

“Quick, the hibiscus powder.” The remedy was only temporary, a scarce, expensive salve Healer Jarris had recommended to pull air back into her trapped lungs. We had spent a fortune on rare medicines and tonics to keep her alive. I would spend everything and more for my child. Never would I give up.

“No, my lady, it is not working.” Liema’s voice trembled. My heart tripped. This was not like any episode before. Freye coughed, and then she spat blood. It ran from her mouth, from her ears, from the tiny wound where a needle had been. Wherever there was an opening, the crimson followed.

“No. No. Moon goddess, help me.” The room tilted. I scooped her up. Her blood stained my shirt and cooled under my skin.

“My lady, calm down,” Liema said, breathless. She tried to take Freye from me. “We must—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.” My voice cracked. “I will not wait for Healer Jarris to arrive. I am taking her to the pack infirmary now.” I barreled toward the door, child clutched to my chest, every step a scream.

Three guards remained at the threshold like dark statues. They had been posted there by Theon so I could not leave, so I could not summon help from outside. Their faces were apologetic and frightened. None of them would dare cross him.

“Move,” I barked. Blood and panic blurred my sight.

“Sorry, ma’am. We cannot let you go.” One of them said. As if he had chosen between oath and mercy and picked the wrong god.

I paced the hall, begging, crying, trying every pleading I had. Nothing softened the men. Sympathy filled their eyes but action did not. I had shouted, wailed, offered coin, promised anything. It all washed away like water on stone.

Freye’s colour drained while I watched. My baby fought for each puff of air like a soldier holding a battered gate. Each shallow breath shattered me. My hands trembled until the world itself seemed to tremble with them.

I handed Freye to Liema, my fingers slick and useless, then fumbled for my comm-seal. I dialed Theon’s number with the urgency of a woman attacking fate itself. No answer. I called again. Nothing.

“He is not picking up, Liema. He is not—” My knees folded under me and I sank to the floor. I had never, in all my life, felt so helpless. Holding the person I loved most as she slipped like sand through my fingers felt like a theft of my entire being.

I refused to be the kind of person who sat and watched. Rage rose like a tide. I lunged at the nearest guard. Claws tore at cloth and flesh. I bit, scratched, fought like an animal forced back into the wild. I could feel the wolf inside me trying to wake, trying to lend me strength even though wolfsbane had worn her out.

“My lady, please, calm yourself,” Liema begged, grabbing my arms. “The best thing you can do for Freye is to stay focused. I have sent for Healer Jarris. He is coming. Please, do not—”

Her voice broke. She was crying too. A mother’s love knows no bounds, they said. I would move mountains for my daughter. I would trade every breath to keep hers.

“And what? Sit and wait while she bleeds? Wait while the sky falls?” I spat. “Do you expect me to watch my child die slowly while I pray to the moon goddess?”

Liema’s hand did not let go. “He is on his way,” she whispered, but I could not hear hope in it.

I collapsed into her arms. The fight left me. My strength felt spent. The pose of control I had kept for years cracked and fell aside like glass.

“My lady—” Penelope appeared, panicking. “Healer Jarris is here.” Relief was a physical thing that hit me hard. Healer Jarris rushed into the room with his leather satchel, hands quick and practiced.

“Oh goddess,” he muttered as his hands found Freye. “This is bad.” He jabbed a syringe calmy and mumbled chants between teeth I did not recognize. Healer Jarris moved with the certainty of someone who had stared into death and bargained with it many times.

“Steady her chest. Cooling poultices. Give her the tonic.” He did not waste words. His fingers were gentler than any of us deserved in that moment. He injected and massaged and forced a bitter draught between Freye’s lips.

Hope flickered in me. Freye’s convulsions slowed but the victory was fragile as a spiderweb. Healer Jarris narrowed his eyes. “The scale of the infection is accelerating. Her lycanscale is flaring faster than I have seen. Her immune lines are strong but unstable. We do not know how long this hold will last.”

My throat closed. Lycanscale, that was the sickness Freye had. The virus had not been seen for a thousand years. Healer Jarris had theories but no cure. We were scrambling on the edge of what was known.

“Do whatever it takes,” I begged. Healer Jarris only inclined his head and returned to his work.

The door opened again, this time Theon walked in as if the scene was a stage set for him. His face blanked at the sight of Freye curled and pale on the couch. For a breath he looked like a father, worry lining his features, panic threading his voice.

“Freye? Is—” He stopped as his eyes took in the blood on my shirt. Then his gaze slid to me, and something in him changed.

I smelled it before I saw it, a scent clinging to him like perfume and filth. A warm, musky scent tangled with cheap wine and flowers.

The unmistakable musk of a she-wolf.