Mira learned the truth three days after the bond began to pull on its own.
She learned it in the healer’s chamber, where the air always smelled of crushed leaves and old stone, and where lies had no room to breathe.
The room was quiet when she entered. Too quiet.
The elderly healer, Maera, stood near a low table covered with bowls of dark liquid and folded cloth. Her gray hair was braided tight, her back straight despite her age. She had healed wolves from both packs during the war, long before borders hardened into hate.
Ryker stood near the wall, arms crossed, his presence heavy and guarded.
That alone made Mira uneasy.
“You sent for me,” Mira said, keeping her voice steady.
Maera turned slowly. Her eyes were kind but sad. That was worse than anger.
“Yes, child,” the healer said.
