The Healer They Deposed Holds Blackpine's Last Breath

My fingertip pressed against the smeared ink on the parchment.

Won't stop bleeding.

The letters were jagged, tearing through the cheap fiber of the paper.

"Seven requests," Oren repeated, stepping closer to the stallion. "All dispatched within hours of each other. The riders crossed my path just before dawn."

I kept my eyes on Elder Thorne's frantic handwriting. "Bleeding from what?"

"That is the problem," Oren replied, his voice dropping. "Old injuries. Scars that sealed years ago. A rider reported that his Alpha's left ribcage tore open during a standard council meeting. No blade touched him. The flesh simply unzipped."

Three years ago. My hands packed Cregan's chest with yarrow. I forced my own energy into his failing heart. He woke up, wiped the blood from his chin, and asked for a status report on the borders. Not a single word of gratitude.

"And the new wounds?" I asked, rolling the parchment back up.

"Sluggish," Oren said. "A simple training scratch takes days to scab. Our Royal healers stationed near the border outposts answered the first call. They used standard poultices, stitches, cauterization. Nothing holds the skin together. They are completely stumped."

I handed the dispatch back to him.

I felt no urge to mount a rescue. I felt no triumph, either. Just a cold, hollow clarity. For two decades, Blackpine believed their invincibility came from superior Northern blood. Nobody ever questioned why their warriors survived lethal strikes.

"What are the Silverclaws doing?" I asked.

Oren blinked, caught off guard by the pivot. "Silverclaw? They sent fifty warriors to Blackpine yesterday. To fortify the vanguard under the new Luna's command."

"Fifty warriors inside the gates of a pack that suddenly cannot stop bleeding," I noted.

Oren's jaw tightened as the implication landed. "An occupation disguised as an alliance."

"Sable Dorne is an opportunist," I said. "She left Blackpine twenty years ago for power. She didn't come back out of loyalty."

I knelt in the snow and unbuckled my leather medicine box. The brass latch popped loudly in the quiet woods. I flipped the lid back and pulled out the heavy, yellowed journal. The pages flipped easily under my thumb, stopping naturally at a section stained with dried purple sap.

The Blood-binding Salve.

A Hartley ancestral formula. It required crushed bone-leaf, spider silk, and the living energy of the healer. It was the exact method I used to keep the Blackpine pack intact.

I stared at the faded ink for three seconds.

Then I slammed the book shut.

I shoved the journal back into the box and fastened the buckle.

"Are we riding back to them?" Oren asked, eyeing the leather case.

"No," I told him, standing up. "I owe Blackpine nothing. My priority is the Royal Court. I need to secure my footing at the capital before I deal with border politics."

Oren nodded, a clear look of relief washing over his scarred face. "The King's carriage waits at the crossroad two miles from here. I brought it as a precaution. It will be faster than riding double."

Four days later, the iron-wrought gates of the Northern Royal Court loomed outside the carriage window.

The wheels rattled over cobblestones, a sharp contrast to the silent mud of the pack lands. Massive stone walls stretched toward the gray sky, flanked by watchtowers bristling with armed guards.

"The King's council is split," Oren's voice drifted through the small communication window at the front of the carriage. "Some believe the old ways of healing are myths. They rely entirely on amputation to stop the rot."

"They will learn otherwise," I answered, not looking away from the glass pane.

I sat alone in the velvet-lined cabin. My reflection stared back at me.

I reached up and grabbed the edge of the coarse woolen headscarf wrapped tightly around my hair. It was the traditional garb of a Blackpine Luna, a symbol of submission to the Alpha's household. Cregan demanded I wear it during all official pack functions.

I pulled the knot loose.

The rough fabric slid off my head, pooling in my lap. I ran my fingers through my hair, letting the cold draft from the window catch the strands. I tossed the scarf onto the opposite bench. I would never wear it again.

The carriage jerked to a halt.

"We have arrived at the medical compound," Oren announced, pulling the heavy wooden door open from the outside.

I grabbed my leather box by the strap, hoisted it over my shoulder, and stepped down onto the stone courtyard.

The smell hit me instantly.

Blood, sweat, and festering flesh. It was a chaotic symphony of suffering. Rows of massive canvas tents dominated the plaza, snapping loudly in the freezing wind. Men in blood-soaked aprons rushed between the flaps, carrying buckets of crimson water.

"This way," Oren instructed, leading me toward the largest tent at the center of the compound.

The fabric was dyed a deep, authoritative crimson. We bypassed a line of groaning soldiers waiting on wooden benches. Oren didn't announce me to the guards stationed outside. He simply reached out and shoved the heavy double doors of the main medical ward wide open.

The iron hinges screamed.

Inside, the frantic movement stopped.

Dozens of severely injured warriors lay on cots lining the walls. Every single head turned toward the entrance. The air was thick with the metallic scent of open wounds and burning sage.

At the center of the room, an elderly man with blood stained up to his elbows dropped a pair of iron forceps onto a metal tray. The clatter echoed in the sudden silence.

He stared at the leather medicine box slung across my shoulder, then slowly raised his eyes to meet mine.

"Are you..." the old healer rasped, his voice trembling as he took a step forward, "the one coming to take charge of us all?"