I sat by Elias’s side, watching the fever rise and fall in restless waves. His breathing was shallow and uneven, and every now and then he’d groan, a sound that tore at something deep inside me. The wound on his side—where Magnus’s blade had cut him—was far worse than I’d thought. It wasn’t just the flesh; the poison was working, a rare strain of wolfsbane that pulsed through his veins, eating away at his strength.
“I need to find something… anything to stop this,” I muttered, eyes scanning the countless scrolls and ancient texts scattered on the heavy oak table before me. Elias’s pack archives were vast, filled with secrets older than any of us. But now, I was desperate, hunting for a cure in the shadows of history.
“Lena,” Elias’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper, dragging me back
