My Son Gave My Name to His Father's Mistress

"You aren't from the northern borders," I said to the crimson leather in my hand.

I traced the two-headed silver wolf stamped into the corner. The metal crest caught the faint moonlight, cold and unfamiliar.

A sudden, searing heat spiked through the veins in my wrist. My blood answered the crest.

"What are you?" I asked.

No one in Blackpine carried this mark. Damon despised ornate crests. Elder Thorne banned them entirely, calling them relics of the old rogue factions.

I gripped the smooth material. Lola.

"You didn't just find my medicine," I said to the wind. "You brought a replacement."

The memory of that night in the apothecary hit me. Lola standing by the mortar and pestle, her hands shaking. She hadn't been looking for chamomile tea. She had been scouting the room.

"You swapped the pouches," I muttered, my voice hardening. "You emptied my real silver powder into your cup. You took this fake pouch. You planted the evidence in my vanity."

The pieces locked together. A small, sharp satisfaction cut through the cold in my chest. I wasn't crazy. I hadn't been careless. I had been hunted. Lola orchestrated the entire trial from the moment she stepped onto our porch.

"But why this specific pouch?" I asked, turning the leather over.

The powder itself was the real mystery.

"Sixteen years," I whispered, pressing my fingers against my burning wrist.

Every first of the month, I swallowed that bitter silver dust. If I missed a single day, a raging fever would follow. My bones would ache until I couldn't stand.

"A chronic defect," Elder Thorne used to say. "A weak bloodline."

Damon always looked at me with pity when the fever hit. "Take your medicine, Wrenna. We tolerate your weakness because you fight well."

"But what if it wasn't a disease?" I asked the empty trail.

The heat in my wrist flared again. It didn't feel like an infection. It felt alive. The silver powder hadn't been curing an illness. It had been keeping something locked away. Suppressing my true nature.

I folded the crimson leather and tucked it into my canvas bag, right beside the spool of grayish-blue thread.

"You left a trail, Lola," I said, securing the leather strap. "And I excel at tracking. You wanted my rank, but you just handed me my freedom."

A low, unnatural howl tore through the mountain air.

I stopped.

The sound came from the valley below. From Blackpine.

It wasn't a patrol call. It wasn't a hunting cry.

It sounded frantic. Chaotic.

Then, a second howl joined the first. A distress signal.

"Trouble in paradise already?" I asked the darkness.

I stood on the rocky ledge, looking down at the distant torchlights flickering near the pack gates. They were running. The border patrol was scrambling.

"Did Lola drink too much of her own poison?" I mused.

Or maybe Damon finally realized he banished his best fighter just as the winter rogues began their migration.

"Let Damon handle his own mess," I said, turning my back to the valley. "He has his pureblood Luna now."

I pushed higher up the mountain pass. The snow thickened, masking the jagged rocks beneath my boots. The wind whipped my hair across my face, stinging my cheeks. The heat in my wrist kept the frostbite at bay.

"Stop right there," a voice echoed off the canyon walls.

I dropped my hand to the hunting knife at my belt.

A figure stepped out from behind a frozen pine. A heavy gray cloak obscured his face and shoulders. He blocked the narrowest part of the trail.

"You are trespassing on the upper pass," the man said, his tone low and grating.

"There are no borders up here," I replied, drawing the blade an inch from its sheath. "Move aside."

"An exile doesn't give orders," he said, stepping into the center of the path.

"I am not an ordinary exile," I said. "And I have nothing left to lose. Draw a weapon, and I will leave you bleeding in the snow."

He tilted his head. "Fierce. Just like the rumors."

"What rumors?" I demanded.

"They threw you out," he said, ignoring my question. "Damon Blackpine finally showed his true colors."

"You know my Alpha?" I asked, gripping the hilt of my knife tighter.

"He is no longer your Alpha," the stranger replied. "You lack the pack mark. You smell like silver and betrayal."

"And you smell like a corpse if you don't step aside," I warned.

"You walk away from Blackpine territory," he continued, taking a slow step forward. "Why?"

"None of your concern," I snapped.

"You survived sixteen years in that pathetic excuse for a pack," he said. "You guarded their borders. You raised his son. And they discarded you for a stray."

"If you know so much about my life, you should know I don't miss when I throw this knife," I said.

"I know you killed a rogue Alpha three winters ago," he said. "I know you lost half your hearing in your left ear. And I know why you really take that silver powder."

I froze.

"What did you say?" I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"Damon called it a disease," the stranger said. "Elder Thorne called it a tainted bloodline. They made you believe you were broken."

"Shut up," I said.

"They fed you poison and called it a cure," he pressed.

"Who are you?" I asked. My patience vanished. I pulled the knife completely free. The steel gleamed in the dark.

He didn't answer. Instead, his gaze dropped to my left hand. To the wrist where the skipped dose of silver powder now burned like a torch beneath my skin. The heat radiated so intensely I felt it through my wool sleeve.

He took another step closer.

"I said stay back," I warned, raising the blade.

He stopped. The wind caught his hood, blowing it back. A scarred jawline and sharp, amber eyes emerged from the shadows. He stared at my wrist, then up to my face. The hostility vanished from his posture entirely.

He dropped his hands to his sides.

"You carry the heat," he murmured.

"I carry a blade," I said. "Explain yourself. How do you know about the powder?"

He lowered himself to the ground, sinking his right knee into the deep snow. He bowed his head, resting a fist over his chest.

"Your Highness," he said, his voice carrying over the howling wind. "The blood of the Moon Goddess... has finally emerged."