MOONFALL: THE ALPHA KING'S FORBIDDEN MATE

Blood. That was the first thing Wren smelled before she even reached the fence line—copper-sharp and heavy enough to taste. “Wren! WREN!” Tobin Ashe was screaming her name before she'd even cleared her own front step, bare feet slapping through the cold mud, his face pale with panic. “It’s my da,” he gasped when he reached her. “The horse threw him into the fence. There’s so much blood—” “Go,” Maren called from the cottage doorway. “I’ll have water boiling.” Wren was already running. She found Bram Ashe crumpled against a fence post, his leg twisted at an angle no leg should ever bend. His wife knelt beside him, crying, while two children stood frozen near the barn. “Get them inside,” Wren ordered. “Now.” She dropped beside Bram and tore his trouser leg open. The bone hadn’t broken through the skin. That was the only mercy she was going to get. “Can’t feel it,” Bram rasped. “Why doesn’t it hurt?” “Because your body is in shock. Stay awake.” She placed both palms over the injury. This was the part no one could see clearly. Heat gathered beneath her hands. Not ordinary heat. Something deeper stirred inside her chest and flowed down her arms, warm and golden, sinking into Bram’s shattered leg. Beneath her palms, the swelling slowly receded. The crooked bone began to straighten. Wren clenched her jaw. Slower. She had learned that lesson years ago. Slower, or they'll see. She forced the healing to move gradually, stretching twenty seconds into twenty minutes. Sweat dampened her hair. Her vision blurred at the edges, but she refused to stop. Finally, the strange warmth faded. Wren pulled her hands away. Bram stared at his leg. He moved his ankle. Then his knee. His face went blank with disbelief. “That’s impossible.” Wren immediately reached for the linen. “Fever bane, willow bark, and stubbornness.” “That bone was broken.” “It was.” “You fixed it.” Wren tightened the bandage. “I treated it.” Bram stared at her. She refused to meet his eyes. People always wanted an explanation. She couldn't give them one. Not without exposing the secret Maren had spent eighteen years protecting. --- By the time Wren returned home, her legs felt weak beneath her. Maren took one look at her pale face and pushed a cup of hot broth into her hands. “You used too much.” Wren looked up. “His leg was shattered.” “I know.” “I couldn't leave him like that.” “I know.” Maren sat opposite her, worry darkening her eyes. “I’m not angry, Wren. I’m frightened.” Wren looked into the fire. “Bram asked if my healing was natural.” “What did you tell him?” “That it was fever bane.” “Good.” Wren's fingers tightened around the cup. “Good girl.” The words irritated her more than they should have. “How long, Maren?” Maren went still. “How long do I have to pretend I'm ordinary?” “You don't have to pretend.” “I healed a broken leg in minutes.” “You saved a man's life.” “And I have to hide how I did it.” Maren looked away. Wren leaned forward. “You always say you'll tell me when I'm ready. I've been ready for years.” Maren's expression softened with something that looked almost like grief. “Some truths don't make you safer just because you know them.” “What are you afraid I'll discover?” Maren didn't answer. That silence told Wren more than words could have. Before she could ask again, a horn sounded in the distance. Three long blasts. Wren froze. Maren's face drained of color. “That isn't a hunting horn.” “No.” Wren stood. “What is it?” Maren crossed to the window. “Ironfall.” Wren followed. Dark riders moved along the northern ridge. There were too many of them. Iron-grey cloaks. Black leather. And on every chest, the unmistakable twin-wolf sigil of Ironfall. Wren's stomach tightened. “They've never come this close to Thorn hollow.” “Not in eighteen years.” The answer made Wren turn. Maren was still staring at the riders. But she wasn't looking at them like a woman watching soldiers. She was looking at them like a woman watching the past come back for her. “Maren?” No answer. “What aren't you telling me?” Maren's hands curled into fists. “Pack a bag.” Wren blinked. “What?” “Just pack one.” “In case of what?” Maren finally turned. The fear in her eyes made Wren's blood run cold. “In case they're not here for the land.” --- Wren couldn't sleep that night. The village had gone quiet, but sleep refused to come. She kept thinking about the soldiers. About Maren's face. About the way she'd said eighteen years. Sometime after midnight, Wren heard a faint sound from the room beside hers. A floorboard creaked. She sat up. Another sound followed. Wood scraping against wood. Wren slipped from her bed and moved silently toward Maren's door. Through the narrow opening, she saw her guardian kneeling beside the rug. Maren lifted it. Pressed her palm against the floor. A hidden panel opened. The chest. Wren had known about it since she was nine. She had never told Maren. She watched as Maren opened the chest only a few inches. Something pale and silver caught the moonlight inside. Maren stared at it. Her hand trembled. Then she slammed the lid shut. Wren stepped backward before she could be discovered. She barely reached her room before hoofbeats thundered outside. Fast. Several riders. A horse stopped directly in front of the cottage. Then came a violent knock. Once. Twice. The door shook in its frame. “Open the door!” Maren appeared in the hallway. All the color had vanished from her face. Another knock. “By order of the King's border command!” Wren's heart pounded. Maren grabbed her wrist. “Whatever happens,” she whispered, “do not tell them who you are.” Wren stared at her. “I don't even know who I am.” Maren's eyes filled with something Wren had never seen there before. Regret. Then a voice came from outside. “We know the healer is in this house.” Silence. The voice lowered. “And the King wants her alive.”