THE MOON'S FORGOTTEN CHILD

CHAPTER 4

Time in the Stone Cellar lost all meaning. There was no day or night, only the rhythm of labor and the darkness that followed it. For Evangeline, the world had shrunk down to the size of her own suffering, and the Rejection Sickness was now her constant, inseparable companion.

It had started as a dull ache in her chest, a phantom pain where the bond had been severed. But now, it had evolved into something far worse—a systemic, internal decay that defied all natural laws. Werewolves were creatures of immense vitality, capable of healing broken bones in hours and surviving wounds that would kill ordinary men. But the Rejection Sickness was not a physical injury; it was a metaphysical disease. It was the body and soul realizing they were incomplete, unwanted, and unanchored to the cosmic order. And because Evangeline's anchor had been Kaelen—a being of such titanic spiritual density—the recoil was catastrophic.

She lay on her straw mat, curled into a ball that took up barely any space in the corner of the cellar. The cold here was absolute; it seeped up from the deep rock, biting through the thin soles of her shoes and freezing her blood from the feet upward. She pulled the rough woolen blanket tighter around her shoulders, though it offered little warmth. Her breathing was shallow, rapid, and rattled with a wet, mucous sound that terrified her.

It's spreading, she thought, pressing a hand against her ribcage. I can feel it eating me.

She coughed then—a harsh, violent spasm that doubled her over. It tore up her throat, burned her lungs, and left her gasping for air that tasted of iron and copper. When the fit finally subsided, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. In the dim light filtering through the grate, she saw the blood. It was darker now, almost black at the edges, mixed with that strange, luminous silver fluid that looked like liquid starlight turned to poison. It stained her skin, and no matter how hard she rubbed, it wouldn't wash away completely.

"My wolf…" she whispered, her voice cracking, barely audible. "My poor wolf…"

She closed her eyes and tried to reach inside herself, to find the spirit that was supposed to be her other half, her protector, her joy. Once, it had been there—small, shy, gentle, but alive. Now, when she looked within, she found only ruin. Her wolf spirit was no longer a shape, no longer a being. It had dissolved into a grey, sludge-like substance that circulated through her spiritual veins, clogging them, poisoning her essence. It was rotting alive, and because her life force was tied to it, she was rotting alive too.

Every heartbeat was a labor. Every movement felt like dragging her body through thick mud. Her skin had taken on a translucent, waxy quality, stretched tight over her bones until her face looked like a skull with eyes. Her hair, once soft and brown, was now dry, brittle, and falling out in clumps. Her fingers were swollen, blue with frostbite, the nails turning black at the tips from the cold and poor circulation.

And yet, the work did not stop.

The door creaked open. The harsh light of a torch blinded her.

"Up! Omega trash doesn't get to sleep all day!"

A kick to her side—hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make her ribs scream—jarred her awake. She gasped, trying to force her limbs to obey. It was Silas, the heavy-jawed warrior who delighted in tormenting her. He stood in the doorway, blocking the light, looking at her with the kind of disgust one might reserve for a maggot-infested carcass.

"The Great Hall floors are filthy. The Alpha returns from the border inspection at noon, and he wants his home spotless. You have three hours. If I see a single smudge… or if you faint again… I leave you out in the snow tonight. Understand?"

Evangeline nodded weakly, biting her lip to keep from crying out as she pushed herself up from the floor. Every muscle screamed in protest. Her joints felt like rusted hinges. She grabbed the heavy wooden bucket and the rough brush he threw at her feet. She had to lean against the wall just to stand upright.

She began the long, slow trek up the stairs. Each step was a battle against gravity and her own failing body. She felt lightheaded, her vision swimming with dark spots. The scent of her own sickness followed her—the smell of wet ash and decaying leaves. It was a smell that repulsed everyone she passed, making them shrink away or kick her aside.

As she scrubbed the vast stone floors of the Great Hall on her hands and knees, her movements were mechanical. She was no longer thinking of survival, or escape, or even love. Her mind had retreated into a small, quiet space deep within herself, a survival mechanism that allowed her to disconnect from the pain. She scrubbed. Rinsed. Repeated.

But the sickness was relentless.

Midway through the morning, as the hall began to fill with returning warriors and servants, Evangeline felt a terrible, tearing sensation in her gut. She froze, her grip tightening on the brush until her knuckles turned white. The world tilted on its axis. The noise of the pack—the shouting, the laughing, the clattering of armor—faded into a dull, distant hum.

She felt him.

Kaelen had entered.

He strode through the massive oak doors, flanked by Vance and his elite guard, his presence instantly commanding the room. He was magnificent—tall, powerful, radiating heat and vitality, his fur-lined cloak brushing the floor, his sword glinting at his hip. He was the very definition of life and strength.

And she was the very definition of decay and death.

The bond, though severed, though ruined, still reacted. It was like a dead nerve that spasms when touched. The proximity of his immense, burning power acted as a catalyst to the sickness within her. The grey rot in her spirit surged, boiling upward, rushing toward her throat.

She couldn't stop it. She fell forward onto her hands, the brush clattering away. Her body was wracked by a cough so violent it lifted her off her knees. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but it was useless. Blood—hot, dark, and plentiful—spilled between her fingers, splashing onto the clean stone she had just scrubbed. It pooled there, dark and glistening, staining the grey rock.

The hall went silent.

Every eye turned to her. The whispers started immediately, low and cruel.

"Look at her… she's leaking."

"Disgusting. Can't she even die quietly?"

"Told you she's a curse. Bleeding black blood… unnatural."

Evangeline trembled, her forehead resting against the cold floor, trying to hide her face, trying to make herself invisible. She felt footsteps approaching—heavy, rhythmic, terrifying. She knew that stride. She knew the vibration of it in the stone.

A shadow fell over her. Massive, encompassing, cold as the grave.

She didn't look up. She couldn't. She stared at the tips of his heavy, leather boots, caked with mud and dust from the mountains.

"You are making a mess of my house, Omega."

Kaelen's voice was low, calm, devoid of anger, but filled with a contempt so deep it cut deeper than a whip. He didn't look down at her. He looked at the puddle of blood on the floor, his expression one of mild annoyance, as if she were a dog that had vomited on the rug.

"I… I am sorry, Alpha…" Evangeline whispered, her voice broken, tears mixing with the blood on her hands. "I… I will clean it… I…"

She tried to reach for her brush, but her arm wouldn't move. Her strength was gone. The world began to fade into grey fog.

Kaelen looked at Vance, standing beside him, his face impassive.

"She is becoming an eyesore," Kaelen said casually, as if discussing a broken chair. "She bleeds on the floors. She wheezes in the corridors. It offends the senses. Take her back down. Double her workload. If she cannot work, she does not eat. If she cannot stand, she lies in the dark. But she stays."

He stepped over her, avoiding even the smallest possibility of contact, and walked toward his throne, the crowd parting before him like water.

"Let her rot," he added softly, so only Vance could hear. "Let everyone see what weakness looks like when it is preserved."

Vance signaled two guards. They grabbed Evangeline roughly by the arms, dragging her away as she slipped into unconsciousness, leaving her bucket and her blood behind.

Down in the Stone Cellar, she woke hours later, alone in the pitch black.

The pain was now constant, a burning fire in her lungs and a freezing ice in her limbs. She knew, with absolute certainty, that she was dying. The Rejection Sickness had reached her heart. Every beat was slow, heavy, painful. She had weeks left, perhaps days.