The medical wing was a sterile purgatory, a place where the scent of sharp antiseptic warred with the copper tang of old blood. It was a cold, unforgiving space, illuminated by flickering fluorescent lights that hummed like a swarm of angry hornets. In the center of the room, a young scout lay mangled on the galvanized steel table, his leg caught in a rogue silver-tipped trap, a nasty, jagged piece of engineering designed to keep a werewolf from healing.
The "Healer," known to the pack only as Elara, moved with a frantic, surgical precision. She was a whirlwind of gray linen and steady hands. Every movement was calculated, every stitch a testament to a skill level that far surpassed any medic the Blackwood pack had seen in a generation.
Cassian stood in the arched doorway, his massive fr
