THE ARRIVAL & THE BURDEN OF PROOF

LYDIA POV

Crossing the border into Stormfang territory did not bring immediate relief. It brought the cold, quiet reality of what I had become: a refugee bought at an auction, carrying a poisoned wound and a shattered bond inside a body everyone had taught me to despise.

Every pulse of my heart sent liquid fire through the arrow wound at my side. The black lines of poison had halted their spread, but they throbbed beneath my skin like burning needles. I kept my head low as Adrian guided me toward a waiting carriage deep within the shadow of the border pines.

His guards moved around us in tight, disciplined lines. They did not whisper. They did not laugh. They did not shoot disgusted sideways glances at my uneven, jagged hair or my torn, blood-stained dress. But their silence felt heavy in its own way. To them, I was an unknown variable—an expensive prize their Alpha had just claimed at a public banquet.

"Inside," Adrian said quietly, holding the carriage door open.

I hauled myself up the small step. The effort tore a muffled gasp from my throat as pain ripped across my ribs. My vision went white at the edges. Before my knees could give out completely, a hand stabilized my elbow. Adrian’s grip was firm, cool, and entirely devoid of the rough, bruised possessiveness Patrick had shown at the border.

"You are forcing yourself to stand on a poisoned leg Lydia," Adrian noted, taking the seat across from me as the carriage jolted into motion. "Save your strength. The journey to the pack house is short, but what awaits you there will require every drop of resolve you have left."

I pressed my back against the padded seat, breathing small, shallow breaths to keep the pain manageable. "What awaits me?" I asked, my voice still rough and dry. "More buyers?"

Adrian’s gray eyes fixed on mine. There was no cruelty in them, but no soft pity either. He spoke with the clear, unyielding weight of a ruler who calculated every move three steps in advance.

"Skeptics," he replied calmly. "My elders do not look favorably on throwing forty thousand gold pieces and an Alpha’s personal challenge at the Silverfang kingdom for a rejected Beta's daughter. They see a liability. You will need to prove you are the White Healer I claimed you were."

"And if I can't?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. The old voices of my parents echoed in the back of my mind: No man in his right mind. A joke. A humiliation.

"You can," Adrian said simply, as if the matter were already settled. "I saw your light in the woods. I saw the boy's flesh knit under your hands. You possess something rare, Lydia. Stormfang does not pay for broken toys. We invest in power. I intend to give you the authority to use yours, but my pack must see it first."

The carriage pressed on through the dark, winding up steep mountain roads until the massive stone outline of the Stormfang Pack Fortress rose against the graying horizon. It was vastly different from Silverfang’s opulent, gilded palace. Stormfang was built of high dark granite, iron gates, and functional, heavy towers designed for war.

When the carriage finally ground to a halt inside the central courtyard, the cold mountain wind hit me like a slap. Dawn was breaking—the very dawn my father had promised to hand me over to Minister Varkas.

Instead, I stood in the heart of a rival kingdom.

A group of figures waited on the wide stone stairs leading to the main hall. At the center stood an older she-wolf dressed in rich gray robes, her hair pulled back tightly, her face carved into deep lines of disapproval. Beside her were two senior pack physicians carrying heavy leather bags, and a stretcher bearing a young warrior who was fighting for breath.

"Alpha," the elder she-wolf barked as Adrian stepped down. "You bring a disgraced, rejected wolf from Silverfang into our sanctuary while our border guards bleed out? Elder Vane was struck by a Shadowclaw shadow-blade hours ago. Our healers cannot stop the decay. And you waste time at an auction?"

Adrian didn't flinch under her sharp tongue. "Elder Greta. Meet Lydia Blackthorn. She is the Head Healer I promised to recruit."

Greta’s cold eyes dragged down my body. She took in the dirty, torn dress, the unevenly shorn hair sticking up in ragged tufts around my ears, and the visible trembling of my frame. A harsh sneer curled her lips.

"This?" Greta spat. "This is the fat, discarded girl the Silverfang Prince threw into the dirt? She looks more like a dying stray than a master of the healing arts. Look at her—she can barely hold her own weight. She is poisoned!"

The words hit like physical blows. My face burned. My hands clenched into tight fists, fingernails biting into my scraped palms. The humiliation was the exact same sound, the exact same tone as my mother's voice.

Stay quiet. Stay out of sight.

No.

I took a step forward, despite the agony tearing through my left side. I looked Greta dead in the eye. "I am poisoned," I said, my voice rising above the wind, clear and sharp. "And yet I am still standing. Which is more than can be said for your warrior."

Greta’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "Arrogant little—"

"Enough," Adrian commanded. His voice wasn't loud, but the sheer Alpha aura behind it made even the elder she-wolf snap her mouth shut. He turned his eyes to me. "Lydia. The warrior on that stretcher has a shadow-blade toxin eating his heart. Our best remedies have failed. If you cannot cure him, Elder Greta will have every right to question my judgment—and your presence here."

The stakes were laid bare on the cold stone floor.

If I failed, I was nothing. I would be stripped of protection, labeled a fraudulent burden, and discarded into the dark once again. Patrick’s mocking face, my sister’s sharp shears, and my father’s disgusted eyes all rushed through my mind at once.

I walked toward the stretcher. Every step was pure torment. The black poison in my ribs burned like molten lead, fighting against every movement.

I reached the dying warrior. His skin was gray, his veins black and swollen across his neck. The scent of decaying flesh rose from a jagged tear in his chest. The two senior physicians stepped back, watching me with open condescension and doubt.

I closed my eyes and reached deep inside myself.

For years, I had hidden the warmth beneath my skin. I had kept it small, quiet, afraid of drawing attention in a pack that valued beauty and muscle over quiet gifts. But the broken bond, the trauma, the sheer rage of being discarded had broken whatever dam was holding it back.

I pressed both hands directly onto the rotting wound.

A gasp of agony tore from the warrior's throat.

Focus, I told myself. Push past the pain. Choose yourself.

Deep within my chest, right beside the hollow, aching scar where the mate bond used to be, a white fire ignited.

Soft, brilliant white light erupted from my hands. It wasn't the faint glow I had used in the woods—it was a sudden, blinding illumination that flooded the entire courtyard. The dark mountain air filled with a sound like rushing wind.

Greta gasped, stepping back and throwing a hand up to shield her eyes. The two physicians stumbled away in shock.

The white light surged out of me, burning hot and pure. I could feel the shadow-blade toxin fighting back, a dark, viscous corruption tearing at my light. It demanded more power. I poured everything I had into the warm glow—my blood, my breath, my raw, unyielding survival instinct.

The black veins on the warrior's neck began to recede. The decaying flesh knits back together before their very eyes, turning pink, fresh, and healthy. The warrior’s chest expanded as he drew in a deep, clean breath, his eyes flying open in shock.

"It's... it's gone," one of the physicians whispered in utter disbelief. "The corruption is completely gone!"

I stood above him, my chest heaving, the blinding light slowly dying down to a faint shimmer around my fingers. I had done it. I had saved him. I had proven them wrong.

But the cost was immediate.

Using that much power while already poisoned and exhausted snapped the last thread of my endurance. The white light flickered and died. A violent cough tore through my lungs, bringing the sharp metallic taste of blood to my mouth.

The world tilted violently. The stone courtyard rushed up to meet me.

Before I hit the ground, a pair of strong arms caught me, pulling my bleeding, bruised body against a solid chest. Through my fading vision, I looked up and saw Adrian’s gray eyes looking down at me—no longer just calm and strategic, but filled with something fierce, protective, and dark.

"You proved your point, Healer," Adrian muttered, his voice echoing over me as the darkness dragged me under. "Now let me handle the rest."

Behind us, high up on the mountain trail leading back toward the border, the distant, furious howl of an Alpha Prince echoed through the dark trees—Patrick was not letting go.