Pain had a color.
Silver pain was white.
Not soft white like silk or moonlight or my mother’s Sunday pearls. This was a violent white. A blinding, screaming white that tore through my arm with every heartbeat and tried to drag the rest of me into its fire.
Marcus carried me through the rain toward the healer station beneath the east pavilion.
I hated being carried.
Not because I was too proud to accept help.
Because the moment your feet left the ground, people started deciding how much of your voice still counted.
“Put me down,” I said.
Marcus did not slow. “No, my lady.”
My eyes opened.
Even through the pain, that surprised me.
“No?”
“With respect,” he said, breath hard as he moved, “the Alpha ordered me to get you to the healers.”
“I am your Luna.”
“And you have silver in y
