Chapter 1 #2
“That’s not fair!” The words burst out of me, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “I risked my life for those herbs. I went beyond the territorial boundaries after sunset and barely escaped from a shadow bear. You wouldn’t do this to any other pack member!”
Healer Morrigan’s eyes harden. “Fair? Life isn’t fair, Astra.
If you were a proper shifter, you wouldn’t have to ‘risk your life’ for such simple tasks.
A real wolf could have handled those juveniles and gathered these herbs without drama.
” She leans back in her chair, her plump figure settling comfortably.
“This is the least you can do for the pack, considering you’re nothing more than a burden to us. ”
Her words hit me hard. But instead of cutting me down, they fuel something fierce inside me. I square my shoulders and meet her gaze directly.
“No other shifter dares to venture past the territorial markings,” I say proudly. “I’m the only one who does. The only one brave enough—or stupid enough—to risk my life for herbs that grow in the most dangerous parts of the forest. Herbs that you need, by the way.”
Healer Morrigan’s expression darkens. “And yet here you are, making excuses and demanding praise for doing what you’re paid to do.”
Arguing with her is fruitless. Her attitude toward me will never change. Like the rest of the pack, she considers my life expendable. Why else would I be the one forced to risk my life every week for her prized herbs?
“Can you at least heal me with your magic?” I hiss, the pain burning through my entire leg. “I can barely walk.”
She glances down at my injured limb with the same expression she might use for a minor inconvenience. “Selene!” she calls to one of the younger healers, her voice returning to its usual warm tone. “Bring this girl a bandage.”
“A bandage?” I protest, my voice sharp with disbelief. I lift my torn pant leg to show her the deep gashes. “Look at this wound! It’s deep, and it’s still bleeding. With proper healing magic, it would close in minutes.”
The young healer, Selene, approaches with a simple cloth bandage, her eyes sympathetic but her hands trembling slightly. She clearly doesn’t want to cross Healer Morrigan.
“This is a serious injury,” I continue, my voice growing stronger with each word. “If it doesn’t heal properly, I won’t be able to collect herbs next week. I need to be able to walk through the forest—”
“Not my problem.” Healer Morrigan reaches into a cabinet behind her desk and pulls out a small glass vial filled with a murky, brown liquid. She tosses it to me. “Here’s a basic healing tonic. It might help with the pain.”
I stare at the vial, recognizing it as the weakest remedy they produce—one usually given for minor scrapes and bruises, not deep claw wounds. My jaw tightens as I lower it to my side, my movements deliberate and controlled.
“This won’t be enough for injuries this severe,” I say, my voice neutral despite the anger burning in my chest. “I need—”
“You need to get out of my office,” the head healer interrupts with a deceptively kind expression. “Take your half payment and your tonic and leave. I have real patients to attend to.”
I stand there for a moment, gripping the pathetic healing tonic and staring at the small pile of coins on her desk. Everything in me wants to storm out empty-handed, to maintain some shred of dignity. But I need those coins, meager as they are.
“Fine,” I say, my voice quiet but firm. I take the coins with steady hands, meeting her gaze the entire time. “But if this injury is not healed by next week, I won’t be going into the woods for your herbs. You should look for another shifter willing to risk their life.”
She half rises out of her chair, clearly angry, but I’m already shuffling out of her office.
My back is straight despite the pain shooting through my leg.
The other healers avoid eye contact as I pass, probably having heard every word of my exchange with their boss.
As I exit the healing center and step back into the evening air, I can’t help but think that sometimes the creatures in the Wyvern Woods show more mercy than the people in my own pack.
Clenching the tonic bottle, I make my way toward the edge of the settlement, where I’ve been allowed to live.
Exhaustion accompanies the burning sensation in my leg. The bear must have hit an artery because the bleeding hasn’t stopped. If I were fully human, I would be dead by now. Tears sting my eyes, but I don’t allow them to fall.
I can’t.
If any other shifter had an injury like this, they would be admitted to the infirmary and given the best care possible.
But I’m not any other shifter. In fact, I shouldn’t even call myself a shifter.
I was born with a latent wolf. Shifters like me are typically killed at birth, but my mother was the previous alpha’s daughter, so I was spared.
I don’t remember much of my childhood, but I recall my mother’s warm hands cupping my face and telling me to hold on, that everything good will come my way eventually.
I don’t know when that warmth disappeared or when she died.
One day, she simply wasn’t there anymore, and I was expected to look after myself.
Finally reaching the very end of the settlement, I open the gate of the small, faded cottage next to the woods. A small cat is napping by the front door, and she stretches when she sees me.
Luna.
She showed up when I was young. She was a kitten herself. And she has been here all these years.
I unlock the door with a groan. “Sorry, Luna. Let me deal with this first.”
After hobbling into the kitchen, I pour some water in a basin and carry it to the small living room, along with a clean rag.
I settle onto the worn couch, wincing as I prop up my injured leg on the coffee table. The basin of water sloshes slightly as I set it down. Luna jumps up beside me, her amber eyes studying my wound with the kind of concern I never get from my own pack.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I murmur to her, dipping the rag into the water. “I know it’s bad.”
The cold pressure against my torn flesh makes me hiss through my teeth. Blood has dried in crusty streaks down my calf, and fresh crimson still seeps from the deepest gouges. I work methodically, wiping away the dirt and blood, my hands surprisingly steady despite the pain.
Once the wound is clean, I uncork the pathetic healing tonic Healer Morrigan gave me. The cloudy liquid looks more like muddy water than medicine. I pour it directly onto the gashes, hoping against hope that maybe it will work better than it looks.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. The bleeding continues, and the pain hasn’t lessened even slightly. If anything, the wound looks angrier than before, the edges red and inflamed.
“Useless,” I mutter, tossing the empty vial aside.
Luna meows in what sounds like agreement.
I lean back against the couch cushions, fatigue weighing heavily on my shoulders. But I can’t just sit here and bleed. Not when I have another option.
Standing carefully, I shuffle toward my back door, the cat following at my heels.
Behind the cottage, hidden from the settlement’s view, lies my secret garden.
Rows of carefully tended herbs grow in neat lines, each one planted and nurtured by my own hands.
Moonbell, silverleaf, crimson sage, and dozens of others that most pack members can’t even name.
I’ve kept them carefully concealed behind large shrubs even though no one ever comes here.
This is my own personal collection in the event I ever need it.
These herbs are not easy to grow out here; in fact, they are supposed to be impossible to grow out here.
But my mother had a green thumb, and so do I.
And the one thing she always told me was not to let anyone know what I’m capable of.
I kneel down, swallowing a pained cry as I do.
Beside me is a patch of emerald-leafed plants, their surfaces slightly fuzzy to the touch.
Healing moss—one of the most potent natural remedies for wounds, but also one of the most dangerous if prepared incorrectly.
My fingers work quickly, selecting only the youngest leaves, the ones with the brightest green color.
Even I can’t grow very many of these, so the ones I do manage are for just in case I get hurt.
Back in my kitchen, I grind the leaves with a mortar and pestle that belonged to my mother.
The stone is worn smooth from years of use, and sometimes I imagine I can still feel the warmth of her hands on it.
I add a few drops of water and a pinch of dried moonbell petals, creating a thick, verdant paste that fills the kitchen with a pungent, medicinal scent.
My mother’s journal sits on the kitchen counter, its leather binding cracked and its pages yellowed with age. I flip to the section on wound healing, running my finger along her careful handwriting.
I’ve read this page a hundred times, but I still check the proportions carefully.
Before her death, my mother was the most skilled healer the Silver Stone Pack had ever seen.
Her knowledge lives on in this journal, and through countless hours of experimentation, I’ve learned to replicate her remedies.
The paste goes on cool and soothing, immediately numbing the worst of my pain. I can feel the herbs providing a protective coating on my wounds. They’re not as fast as proper healing magic, but they are infinitely better than Healer Morrigan’s useless tonic.
I’m just finishing wrapping my leg with clean bandages when there’s a knock on my front door. Luna’s ears perk up, and she bounds toward the sound.
I hesitate for a moment before limping over to the door. I open it to reveal the young healer who entered Healer Morrigan’s office with the bandage earlier. We stare at each other for a moment before she makes an impatient sound. “Well, are you letting me in or not?”