Chapter 17 – Blood on Paper
1371 Words
Two days can stretch forever when you’re waiting for something ugly.
They also fill up fast.
By the time the second midnight crept toward Mistveil, I’d nearly drowned myself in “normal” — patrol schedules, food storage audits, a dispute over hunting rights that should’ve taken an hour and somehow lasted three.
Busywork. All of it.
I still jumped every time someone said my name too softly.
“Lyris.”
I flinched, then relaxed when I saw who it was.
Eryx leaned in the infirmary doorway, arms folded, white shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. The lanternlight picked out the ink stains on his fingers, the faint crease between his brows.
“You planning to sleep at all this week?” he asked.
“I’ll pencil it in for next month,” I said, stacking the last of the patrol reports. “Between being ‘compromised’ and ‘under observation,’ my schedule’s full.”
He winced very slightly at Serapha’s word thrown back at him.
“That was… poorly phrased,” he said. “She’s worried about you.”
“She’s worried about losing control,” I said. “We’re all anxious about something.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t bite.
“I wanted to check on the cut,” he said instead, nodding at my bandaged throat. “Make sure it’s healing clean.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
He crossed the room with that easy, quiet grace that had once made me feel safer just by existing near him. He stopped close enough that our shoulders brushed.
“May I?” he asked, fingers hovering near the bandage.
I forced myself not to recoil. “Knock yourself out.”
He peeled the bandage away with gentle precision. Cool air kissed the thin line of scar.
“Good,” he murmured. “No swelling. No infection.”
He hesitated, then brushed his thumb lightly over the mark.
“You scared me,” he said quietly. “Charging a group of rogues alone? That’s not like you, Lyris.”
“Maybe you don’t know what I’m like.” The words came out sharper than intended.
He exhaled through his nose. “I know you hate unnecessary risk. You calculate. You plan. You don’t just… run.”
I thought of Cassian’s hand and the choice I hadn’t made.
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t.”
He searched my face. “Then why—”
“Because I needed to see something for myself,” I cut in. “Not through temple smoke. Not through your notes.”
“Is this still about Rylan?” His tone cooled. “About his ‘treatment’?”
“It’s about a lot of things,” I said. “But yes. He nearly collapsed on patrol two days ago.”
His gaze sharpened. “He what?”
“Shortness of breath. Weakness. Tremors.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Again.”
“I told him to rest,” Eryx muttered. “Of course he didn’t. He never—”
“He gets worse after you adjust his dosage,” I said, low.
Silence dropped between us like a stone.
His eyes went flat. “You’re accusing me again.”
“I’m stating what I’ve seen,” I said. “I’ve known him my whole life. I know what normal aging looks like. This isn’t it.”
“Lyris.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “There are few things I take as seriously as the health of this pack. The fact that you would even consider that I—”
“—might be following orders that don’t come from this pack?” I snapped. “From the Council? From Serapha?”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t answer to Serapha. I answer to my oaths.”
“To whom?”
He stared at me, breathing hard.
“I have been here since you were a pup with more scraped knees than sense,” he said. “I’ve bandaged you, stitched you, watched you throw yourself into fights for wolves who didn’t deserve it. How many times have I put you back together, Lyris? How many times have I chosen you?”
“Once less than you chose yourself,” I said. “I remember that very clearly.”
He flinched, the ghost of firelight reflected in his eyes for just a heartbeat.
“Whatever’s gotten into your head,” he said slowly, “it’s twisting everything you see. You’re so busy looking for daggers in shadows that you’re going to miss the one in front of you.”
“The only daggers I’m missing are the ones you hide in your blends,” I said.
Enough. If I stayed, I’d say something that couldn’t be unsaid.
“I have patrol,” I lied, stepping back. “Try not to ‘adjust’ anyone else while I’m gone.”
His voice followed me to the door, soft and dangerous.
“One day,” he said, “you’re going to look back and realize who was actually trying to save you.”
My hand tightened on the frame.
“Maybe,” I said. “We’ll see whose definition of ‘save’ wins.”
The southern forest felt different the second time.
More familiar. More dangerous.
Mistveil’s scents faded. The air cooled. The world narrowed to the crunch of leaves under my boots and the quiet thud of my heart.
At the coordinates, I paused, listening.
Silence.
Then, from the darkness ahead, a low whistle—three notes, rising.
“Ashmere?” I whispered.
“Sort of,” a voice replied.
Wren slid out of the shadows, hood down tonight. They looked more tired, dark smudges under their eyes.
“You came alone?” they asked, scanning the trees.
“As far as I know,” I said. “You?”
They lifted a small data slate in one hand, a folded packet in the other.
“I brought presents,” they said. “Which one you want first: the truth, or the part that gets you killed faster?”
My stomach lurched. “Start with the truth.”
They handed me the packet.
Inside, neat lines of script and printed numbers danced before my eyes. Chemical markers. Dosage estimates. Words I half-recognized from Father’s old medical manuals.
“Bottom line,” Wren said. “Your Alpha’s blood shows sustained exposure to a rare neuro-suppressant compound. Microdoses. Long-term.”
My throat closed. “Poison.”
“Slow one,” they said. “Looks a lot like natural decline. Except it’s not. And it’s traced.”
“Traced how?” My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Wren tapped the slate. “Compound’s specific to certain temple labs. Not something a village hedge-healer whips up.”
“Which temple?” I whispered.
They smiled without humor and turned the slate so I could see.
A symbol glowed on the screen—stylized moon, three vertical cuts through its center.
The same mark Cassian had pocketed off that dead mercenary’s pin.
Under it, a designation.
Serapha.Moonveil – Authorized Access.
My heart stopped, then started again in a painful, furious rush.
She had authorized access to the very poison in my Alpha’s veins.
“And the part that gets me killed faster?” I asked, voice shaking.
Wren’s gaze flicked past my shoulder, into the deeper dark.
“That,” they said, “would be telling you who else is flagged in the system for ‘potential corrective protocol.’”
“Who,” I said, though I already knew.
“You,” Wren replied. “Lyris Greyfang. Beta candidate. Recommended for ‘incident’ escalation if behavioral deviation continues.”
The world tilted.
“They’ve already started designing your death,” Wren said softly. “Your Alpha’s just the trial run.”
The trees around us suddenly felt too close. Too watching.
Behind Wren, a shadow detached from the trunks—tall, broad, eyes catching the moonlight.
Cassian.
He hadn’t made a sound.
“This is where,” he said, voice low and steady, “you stop pretending you can fix it from inside, Mistveil.”
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