Chapter 3

I didn't die.

I was told later that Alaric had let his wolf fully loose and torn every assassin in the castle to pieces.

He brought back an exiled old herbalist—Agnes.

Gray hair. Hands rough and calloused.

The clan called her a crazy hag.

She peeled open my eyelids, examined the poisoned arrow.

"Wolfsbane on the tip," she muttered. "Enough poison to kill an entire pack of wolves."

She studied me for a long time, like I was something that shouldn't exist.

"A wolf-less waste, and you take this kind of poison—and only burn with fever for three days?"

After packing my wound with a thick poultice of antidote herbs, she muttered under her breath:

"Either a miracle happened... or your blood is something special."

She didn't finish the thought. I didn't ask.

I woke in a warm bed. Thick quilts tucked around me. Fire crackling in the hearth.

Alaric sat beside me. Watching. Waiting.

When my eyes opened, his lips parted—but no words came out.

Graves brought a bowl of medicine. Alaric took it from him and fed me himself.

The medicine was bitter. I winced.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny piece of honey candy, slipping it into my mouth.

The sweetness spread across my tongue, drowning out the bitterness.

That was the first time I ever saw gentleness on that face.

My wound was on my back—I couldn't reach it myself to change the dressing.

The servants had all fled after the assassination attempt.

Graves offered to help. One look from Alaric sent him scurrying away.

So Alaric did it himself.

Warm water. Salve. Fresh bandages.

His hands were clumsy—rough, even. Sometimes he'd pull too hard and I'd hiss in pain.

He'd stop instantly, frozen, his voice tight with worry he didn't know how to hide.

"Hurt you?"

I always shook my head.

When his fingers touched my skin, a jolt ran through me. My heart almost stopped.

It was more unsettling than the wound itself.

I didn't dare move. Just buried my face in the pillow.

My silence seemed to ease him.

After that, he seemed to stop pushing me away.

When I healed, he started teaching me to read and write.

At the Blackwood estate, no one had ever taught me. My grip on the pen was terrible.

He didn't mind. He held my hand and guided each stroke.

His palm was so warm.

I started to crave that warmth.

One day, he called me into his study and pressed a token into my hand.

"Down the mountain, there's a smithy. The smith has a red beard. Give him this. He'll give you something in return."

"Tell no one."

His face was graver than I'd ever seen it.

I took the token. Nodded.

This was the first time he'd ever entrusted me with something that mattered.

I pulled on a black cloak, raised the hood, and took the cliff path down the mountain.

The village was silent at night. Empty.

But I felt eyes on me from the darkness.

The smithy was easy to find—the forge still glowed.

The red-bearded dwarf looked at the token once. Without a word, he led me to the back.

He handed me a chest. Inside: several sheets of parchment.

Dwarf-crafted weapon blueprints.

And military maps of the entire northern kingdom—every war-band's position, every clan's allegiance, marked in precise detail.

My blood went cold.

I knew what I carried on my back could start a bloodbath.

On my way back, rogues burst from the forest, surrounding me.

I had no wolf. No weapon. I just clutched the blueprints to my chest.

The black alpha lunged at me, sinking its teeth into my wrist. Blood gushed out. I closed my eyes, waiting for it to tear out my throat.

But the pain never came.

I opened my eyes.

The black wolf had let go. It was trembling, backing away.

Then it lowered its front legs—and bowed its head to me.

One by one, the other rogues followed. They dropped their hackles and knelt.

All of them. At my feet.