Six months later, I lived far south of the Blackwood forests in the coastal city of Solara. Sun warmed its stone streets, and salt clung to the windows each morning.
I opened a small clinic in a bright cottage overlooking the sea and named it the Silverleaf Sanctuary.
Silver had taken Maeve from me. On my sign, the word sat beside a painted green leaf, and I chose what it meant here.
In Solara, no one called me an Omega or an Alpha’s mate. They called me Serena, the Healer.
I treated fevers, set bones, and mixed remedies under my own name. Patients came back because my work helped them, not because a pack had ordered them through my door.
One evening, as I was closing the sanctuary, the city’s mail carrier brought me a letter. It was a thick, formal parchment, sealed with the familiar
