In the heart of the wolf nation’s royal enclave, the Nightvein Nexus, within the fortified Blackthorn Sanctuary, Owen lay still on his sickbed. Though unconscious, his condition had improved markedly under meticulous care. Thrice-daily massages, professional nursing, and a regimen of tailored medications and nutrition had banished much of the sickly pallor that once clung to him. When he’d been rescued from that warehouse, no one could’ve imagined the boy who seemed destined for a coffin would now appear serene, his face clean and tranquil, merely gaunt—a portrait of peaceful slumber rather than illness.
The caregiver, having just finished Owen’s second massage of the day, was gently arranging his clothes and hair. These sessions staved off muscle atrophy, preserving his frame so that, sh
