The wind howled a thin, icy song against the stone walls of the Healer's Den, a bitter soundtrack to a pack haunted by a plague. Inside, the air was thick with the earthy, sharp scent of crushed winter herbs and the underlying metallic tang of fresh blood.
Nyra knelt beside the cot, the dim light from a tallow lamp catching the pale strands of hair escaping her hurried, messy bun. The dark circles beneath her eyes were an occupational badge in these desperate weeks, yet they only emphasized the rare, silver-grey hue of her gaze—a sign of being Moon Kissed, gifted with an exceptional healing touch.
"Damn those sons of bitches," the Sentinel grumbled, his voice strained as Nyra carefully applied a thick, black balm to the deep gash running along his ribcage. "They hit fast. Too fast. That rogue got a lucky strike, I swear it."
"Luck had nothing to do with it, Roric," Nyra murmured, her voice soft but firm. "You fought too aggressively. Their numbers are growing, you must be more cautious." She didn't look at him, her attention fixed on the wound. The rogue attacks had become a grim echo to the spreading plague, two fronts of chaos that demanded every ounce of her depleted energy.
She smoothed the potent balm over the raw flesh, pausing before the true work began. Closing her eyes, Nyra began to murmur a prayer, the ancient words vibrating low in her throat, a secret song to the Moon Goddess.
As the last word faded, a faint, incandescent glow emerged from her palms, hovering just above the Sentinel's skin. It was subtle but undeniable, a warmth that pushed back the biting chill of the winter den. The raw edges of the wound instantly calmed under the luminescence.
Roric, who had been clenching his jaw against the pain, visibly relaxed. He looked up at Nyra with a weak, humbled smile. "Thank you, Healer. Truly."
Nyra simply nodded, the light receding as quickly as it had appeared. "Sleep, Roric. The healing process is taxing." She tucked a thick, wool blanket securely around the warrior, her movements gentle and tired. She lingered only long enough to ensure his breathing was deep and even before she quietly slipped out of his small room, pulling the heavy curtain shut behind her.
She was back in her main preparation chamber, rinsing the residue from her hands, when a firm, familiar knock sounded against the outer door.
"Enter."
The door swung inward, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop, replaced by a charged, possessive heat. Alpha Rhys stepped in, filling the doorway with his height and the demanding presence of true pack power. His thick, dark hair was neatly brushed, his shoulders were broad, and the tailored hunting leather he wore contrasted sharply with the weary chaos of the Healer's Den.
"How fares our Sentinel?" Rhys asked, his voice a rich baritone that commanded immediate attention.
Nyra wiped her hands on a linen towel. "He will be fine, Alpha. The gash was deep, but nothing damging but a scar. I have done what I can, but he must not be out on regular duty for a fortnight. He needs rest."
Rhys rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting out a soft, guttural growl that was more frustrated than angry. "A fortnight. Another Sentinel down. The frequency of these rogue attacks has become intolerable, Nyra. It feels orchestrated, especially since this damned plague started spreading. It's like we're being tested."
Nyra nodded, her tired eyes meeting his. "I know, Rhys. We are doing all we can with the sick, but the medicine is slow, and the fear is fast."
Rhys crossed the short space between them in two purposeful strides. He didn't speak of the plague or the rogues again; instead, he rested his large, warm hand against the side of her cheek, his thumb gently tracing the dark half-moons beneath her eyes.
"And you, little Healer? You're fading to shadow yourself," he murmured, his gaze softening into a look of deep, proprietary love. "I can't wait for the bonding ceremony. Once you're my Luna, you won't have to carry this pack's burdens alone."
Nyra's exhaustion eased instantly, replaced by a rush of warmth. She leaned into his palm and angled her head, giving him an innocent kiss to his lips.
Rhys's arms instantly wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against the hard planes of his body. He wasted no time, pushing his mouth onto hers in a deep, hungry demand, parting her lips with a practiced insistence that left her breathless. The kiss was sudden, intense, and all-consuming.
With a soft, surprised gasp, Nyra pulled back just enough to break contact, her cheeks a flushed red. Her chest was heaving, and she kept her hands pressed against his chest to maintain a small, necessary distance.
"Rhys, please, not here," she whispered, her voice husky. "There are injured wolves just through that curtain. I have work to tend to."
Rhys chuckled low in his throat, a sound that vibrated deep in her ear, laced with arrogance and pure masculine hunger. He shifted his hips, pressing his advantage.
"And?" he breathed against her neck, his voice husky. "I'll make sure they don't hear the sounds you love to make, my Luna. We'll be quiet."
Nyra's face burned brighter, and she gentle but firmly pushed him back, her small resistance more of a reminder than a true effort. "Please, I'm serious, Alpha. I have matters to attend to. The work won't stop just because of a… lapse in judgment."
Rhys looked down at her, the hunger still sparking in his eyes, but his mouth curved into a playful, lazy smile at her flustered, red face. He accepted the rejection with good humor, straightening his jacket.
"Of course, Nyra. Duty first, as always." He gave her one last quick, hard kiss on the forehead. "I'll be in my study if you need me."
With a final, confident nod, Rhys left the Den, his powerful strides fading down the stone corridor, leaving Nyra panting lightly, standing alone amidst the sharp smell of herbs and the lingering tension of his promise. She forced herself to turn back to the work table, but the image of his eyes, dark with hunger, and the whisper of his suggestive promise, still burned bright behind her own.
Rhys's scent lingered, a powerful, intoxicating mix of pine and ambition. Nyra shook her head, forcing her mind back to duty. Her eyes landed on the tall, ceramic jar containing the pain-numbing willow bark. It was nearly empty.
With a soft, tired sigh, she acknowledged the inevitable. The frost had killed most surface growth, but she knew where the resilient roots of replenishment still lay hidden. She turned to grab a thick, heavy pelt coat from a hook near the door, its fur offering a meager defense against the icy air.
Stepping quickly out of the Den's archway, she immediately regretted her haste as she collided hard with another figure turning the corner. Nyra stumbled back, nearly losing her footing on the slick stone.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't see you!"
The figure was Seline, the leading Sentinel of the pack's warriors. Her features were sharp and held a calculated, unforgiving look. Her eyes were a deep amber, the color of old fire, and her dark hair was braided so tightly it seemed painful. Seline stared at Nyra with cold, unveiled annoyance.
"Watch it, future Luna" Seline drawled, the last words almost sarcastic.
"I already said sorry, Sentinel Seline," Nyra countered, dusting herself off and straightening her collar. "I was distracted."
Seline snorted, a purely dismissive sound. She bent down slightly, bringing her sharp, calculated gaze level with Nyra's silver-grey eyes. The action was deliberately condescending. "You may be our future Luna, but respect is earned, not given, Wolfless." She straightened abruptly, her movements as sharp as her words, and walked away down the corridor without a backward glance.
The word, Wolfless, was a clean, agonizing stab to the gut. Nyra remained frozen for a moment, the chill of the insult sharper than the winter air. She forced herself to pick up her pace, adjusting the heavy fur.
The stigma of the Wolfless title was a constant, raw wound. On her eighteenth birthday, the day every werewolf was meant to receive the gift of their inner spirit—their wolf—Nyra's had failed to appear. Her parents had comforted her then, assuring her she was a "late bloomer" and not to fret. Two years had passed since, and she still hadn't shifted, transforming a fleeting worry into a deep, anxious certainty.
Without the wolf, she was viewed as incomplete, fragile—a dangerous prospect for a mate bond. Most male werewolves, especially those of rank, were hesitant to tie their lineage to a woman who couldn't guarantee strong, shifting children. The beautiful silver-grey eyes and her potent healing gifts were often overshadowed by the fact that she was merely a woman in a pack of shifters.
The whispers had grown louder and crueler until the Moonlight Masquerade two years prior. Nyra had been coerced into attending, her parents desperate for her to secure any honorable match. It was amidst the swirling masks and music that she felt it: the undeniable pull of a fated mate bond, an invisible, magnetic force that pulled her soul directly toward Rhys. The future Alpha of Lunar Crest felt it too, their eyes locking across the room in a moment that stopped the world.
The news was scandalous. The powerful heir claiming a Wolfless Healer as his mate?
The pack buzzed with contemptuous whispers about the weakness of their future bloodline. But then, an unfortunate end happened to Alpha Rhys's father, and Rhys inherited the mantle of power. He was now the ultimate authority, and with his first decree, he silenced the critics forever. He claimed Nyra as his fated mate and proudly announced their imminent bonding ceremony, ensuring that the Wolfless Healer would soon ascend to the coveted position of Luna.
The winter forest was quiet, muffled by a dusting of snow that coated the needles of the pines. Nyra spent hours in the stillness, moving through the shadowed, cold earth to her usual foraging spots. She worked with the focused efficiency of long practice, digging down to find the robust roots and dormant bulbs of her most vital healing stock.
A golden sunlight had faded to a warm, dusky sunset by the time Nyra rose, brushing the dirt from her dress. Her woven basket was gloriously full, laden with replenishment for the sick: willow bark for pain, fever-reducing meadowsweet root, and the scarce wintergreen needed to combat the coughs and fever of her plagued pack mates.
Happy with her bountiful harvest, the future Luna began to head back to the safety of the Den. The silence of the forest, once comforting, now felt heavy, weighted.
Then, she heard it: the sharp, unmistakable crack of a stick under a heavy foot somewhere just off the trail.
Nyra instantly froze, every instinct honed by years of living on the edge of the wilderness screaming a silent warning. An unfamiliar smell, acrid and aggressive—not the scent of her pack—hit her nose, and she felt the fine hair on the back of her neck begin to prickle and stand.
Rogues.
Before she could comprehend a thought, a heavy, muscled body slammed into her from the side, knocking the air from her lungs and sending her precious basket tumbling. She let out a short, high-pitched scream of fright and surprise.
"Silence, bitch—AAGHHH!"
The attacker's scream was a raw, surprised bellow. In a purely instinctual response, Nyra had plunged her teeth deep into the arm wrapped around her chest. The familiar, metallic tang of blood flooded her mouth as she clamped down, biting with every ounce of panic-fueled strength she possessed.
A sharp gasp was ripped from the rogue, followed by a vicious, stunning punch to the side of her head. Her vision blurred, sending white spots dancing behind her eyes, and she was forced to release her grip, stumbling to the ground.
"Fucking bitch bit me hard!" the injured rogue snarled, clutching his arm, his dark eyes blazing down at her.
"Shut up, you idiot, we got a job to finish," a second voice snapped, cold and utterly devoid of emotion.
Nyra dragged her gaze up. The second rogue stepped into the clearing, tall and lean, with a chillingly calm expression. In his hand, a thin, silver knife glinted sharply in the dying light of the sunset.
Ice cold fear spread through Nyra's veins, paralyzing her for a terrified moment. She scrambled backward, pushing herself up onto her elbows, holding a hand up in a desperate plea.
"Please! What do you want? Why are you doing this?" she begged, her voice shaking violently.
The rogue with the silver knife smirked, a cruel, lazy curve of his lips. "We were hired to take care of you, Healer."
"Yeah!" the other one quipped, still nursing his bloody arm. He snickered, his eyes filled with contempt. "Paid a good amount of money to get rid of you, Luna."
The truth struck her, cold and absolute: she wasn't ambushed by strangers, she was hunted by a betrayal that began at the heart of her own pack.
The rogues were close, closing in on her. Nyra's mind screamed for her wolf, but in reply was nothing but silence. All she had was her fleeting healing touch, useless for defense. The rogue raised the silver knife, its blade catching the final crimson light of the setting sun. Silver was agony to werewolves, and the sight of it made her stomach clench.
"Too much talk," The rogue hissed, stepping forward with deliberate, terrifying slowness. "Let's earn the rest of our gold."
Nyra squeezed her eyes shut, scrambling backward into the base of a cold, unforgiving pine tree. She threw her hands up in a useless gesture of defense, bracing for the inevitable tear of the blade.
Before the knife could descend, a guttural snarl—louder, deeper, and infinitely more menacing than anything the two attackers had managed—ripped through the air.
A shadow—darker and faster than the fading twilight—slammed into the rogue's back. The attacker let out a choked cry as his body was pitched violently forward, the silver knife skidding across the frozen earth and disappearing into the undergrowth. The rogue hit the ground with a sickening thud, landing hard on his chest, momentarily stunned.
The rogue, whose arm was still bleeding from Nyra's bite, whipped around, his eyes wide with fear and fury. "Who the hell—"
His question died in his throat. Standing over the fallen rogue, breathing heavily and radiating a lethal, untamed power, was a third wolf. Not a fully shifted beast, but a man—tall, built like granite, covered in layers of rough, travel-worn furs. His skin was pale, and his face was obscured by a thick beard dusted with frost, but it was his eyes that instantly stole Nyra's breath. They were a vivid, unsettling gold, narrowed and burning with intense, focused pain.
He was injured. A massive, blood-soaked bandage was roughly tied around his lower torso, and he was clearly leaning on one leg, but the sheer predatory menace he exuded made the other two look like clumsy pups.
"Get out," the newcomer rasped, his voice a low, gravelly threat that vibrated through the twilight air. It was a command, not a warning, and it was backed by an Alpha-level authority that made the other rogues visibly flinch.
The rogue beneath him recovered quickly, rolled over, spitting blood. "Don't you know who we are? We're on a job! Stay out of it!"
The stranger didn't speak. He simply took a staggering, painful step forward, but the movement alone—the promise of the brutal fight he was clearly capable of—was enough.
In fright, the other rogue grabbed his injured partner by the collar. "Forget it, let's go! He's too big!"
With an exchange of muttered curses and one last venomous glance at Nyra, the two paid assassins vanished into the thickening gloom of the trees.
Nyra remained pressed against the pine, shaking uncontrollably, her heart hammering against her ribs. She was alive. She stared at her rescuer, his massive chest rising and falling heavily as he fought to control his pain and his staggering shift. He looked like death, powerful and broken all at once.
He finally turned, his golden eyes meeting hers. Despite the pain clouding his features, a familiar, arrogant sneer twisted his lips.
The scent hit her then—pine and snow and a deep, feral earthiness, unlike Alpha Rhys's clean, controlling dominance. This was a scent of raw power, tainted by blood.
The face was more haggard than the images in the pack records, but the eyes, those striking, terrible golden eyes, were unmistakable.
She knew him.
He was Faelan, the banished Alpha, the smug rogue, the rumored Kinslayer who had fled Lunar Crest after his brother, Rhys, seized the pack. He was the most dangerous wolf to set foot in their territory. And he was gravely injured.
Nyra's blood turned to ice, the panic of the attack shriveling into a raw, paralyzing dread. She was alone with the one man her Alpha, Rhys, had sworn to hunt down and destroy.
"Faelan," she breathed, the name a forbidden curse.
He leaned against the pine tree, his golden gaze bored into her silver eyes as he rasped out, "Do you really think I expect thanks, Luna?" His mouth twisted into a dry, humorless smirk. "Go on, run. Tell your Alpha his banished brother is bleeding out on his borders. I'm sure Rhys will be thrilled to hear his Wolfless pet had to be saved by the Kinslayer." He spat a thin thread of blood onto the snow, mocking the fear clinging to her. "Be a good girl and deliver the report."
He started to push away from the tree, intending to disappear. But the movement was a fatal miscalculation. A deep, silent wrenching seized his core, and the crude, blood-soaked bandage around his waist instantly saturated, the tear widening to reveal the venomous shine of silver beneath.
Faelan didn't scream or snarl. He simply went rigid, a choked gasp the only sound he allowed. Then, control failed entirely. His immense body collapsed, sinking into the snow without a fight, the light in his golden eyes vanishing as he fell into unconsciousness.
Nyra knelt, staring at the wound, a nasty jagged gash that made her silently gasp to herself.
A mental war broke out inside her as she thought to herself on what she could do.
To save him or to let him die?
She reached out a trembling hand, the cold settling deep into her bones. She touched the icy, bleeding fabric of his ruined tunic and began to speak the healing hymns.