Michaela
I tensed as I heard footsteps approaching my cell door later that night – but the smell, though familiar, wasn’t Andreas’s. It was the earthy, herbal scent of an old friend I hadn’t seen since I was driven away from my pack: Maya, the healer and royal apothecary, had been sent to tend my wounds.
She slipped inside the door, clutching her satchel of medicines and salves, eyeing me warily. Five years ago, Maya always had bright eyes and a quick smile for her friends, and wore her coily black hair naturally; now, her expression was guarded and her hair was in protective box braids. A quick scan from her experienced healer’s eye was enough for her to grasp the extent of my injuries, and she silently began to mix and grind ingredients from her medicine bag.
The sight of my old fr
