Astrid
Hatiana's quarters reeked of bitter herbs and old bones. I sat on the long-arm sofa. Two guards were stationed outside. Sebastian had ordered them to escort me wherever I went, not that I needed them anyway.
The old woman took her time examining me—pressing my pulse points, smelling my breath, even biting down lightly on my thumbnail to test something I didn’t understand.
“I’m not sick,” I whispered. “Wolves heal. I should’ve healed by now.”
She didn’t answer immediately. She returned to her worktable, pounding through powders and roots, then came back with a small vial of thick, reddish fluid.
“Drink,” she ordered.
I did. The taste was metallic and oddly sweet. Almost like blood.
Her eyes narrowed. “Again.”
The second dose went down rougher. This time, I felt it—the shift.
