Chapter 3

Seraphina Thorne POV:

Hours of walking through the dense, dripping forest had turned my exhaustion into a dangerous, feverish chill. The rain had started again, a cold, persistent drizzle that seeped into my bones. My body, already weak from the emotional turmoil, was beginning to shut down.

*Shelter. Medicine,* my inner wolf urged, her voice a low growl in my mind.

A memory surfaced, a piece of a conversation with Gideon from years ago. He'd mentioned an old pack doctor, Elara, who lived on the very edge of the territory, a recluse who sometimes helped the pack's outcasts.

My feet moved on their own, driven by a desperate, flickering hope. I found the place just as he'd described it: a small, moss-covered cottage tucked away behind the curtain of a waterfall.

I knocked, my knuckles barely making a sound against the wet wood. The door creaked open to reveal an old she-wolf, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, but her eyes were kind. It was Elara.

She took in my pathetic state-soaked, shivering, and pale-and simply stepped aside. "Get in before you catch your death," she grumbled, her voice raspy with age.

Inside, a warm fire crackled in a stone hearth. She handed me a dry, roughspun towel and a steaming mug of broth without a word. The hot liquid was life itself, chasing away some of the cold that had settled deep in my marrow.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "I need herbs. For a fever and... some cuts."

Elara nodded, turning to a wall of wooden cabinets filled with dried herbs. "Trouble at the packhouse?" she asked, her back to me. "I heard the mourning bell for Gideon."

I hesitated, the lump in my throat making it hard to speak. "Gideon is gone," I said simply. "I've been exiled."

Her hands stilled for a fraction of a second. She let out a long, weary sigh, a sound of sorrowful resignation. She had seen this coming.

She returned with several small parcels wrapped in leaves. "These will help you for a few days."

I took them with a grateful nod, then reached into the small, hidden pocket of my dress. I pulled out my entire fortune: three small, tarnished iron coins, the old currency of the pack, saved from years of mending clothes and washing floors.

I pushed them across the small wooden table toward her. "It's all I have."

Elara looked at the pitiful coins, then back at my face. She shook her head gently. "Child, this wouldn't be enough for a single bundle of pain-leaf."

My heart sank. The reality of my situation hit me with the force of a physical blow. Without Gideon, I was less than nothing. I was worthless.

Seeing the despair in my eyes, Elara's expression softened. "However," she said, pushing the coins back toward me, "Gideon once did me a great service. Consider this my repayment of that debt."

She met my gaze, her kind eyes now filled with a grim warning. "Take them. You'll need them more than I do. But understand this, Seraphina. This is the only time I can help you. Bane has declared that anyone who offers you aid will be treated as a traitor."

I clenched my fist around the cold, useless coins, a strange mix of gratitude for her kindness and bitterness at my own helplessness warming my palm.

"I won't bring you trouble," I promised, my voice firm.

As I stood to leave, she stopped me. "Wait."

She pressed a hard loaf of black bread and a small wedge of cheese into my hands. "Go north from here. Cross the Whispering River. You'll find an abandoned quarry. There's an old warehouse there. It's not much, but it will keep the wind and rain off you."

I looked at her, memorizing the lines on her face, branding the scent of her kindness into my memory.

*Kindness from a stranger is rarer than a winter rose. Remember his scent,* my inner wolf murmured. In this case, her scent.

Back out in the cold, a wave of dizziness washed over me. The fever was getting worse. I had to find that quarry. I tore off a piece of a medicinal leaf with my teeth, its bitter taste a shock that cleared my head for a moment.

I found my direction and pushed forward, each step an agony. My body screamed in protest, but my will to survive was a fire that refused to be extinguished.

Hours later, as dusk painted the sky in shades of bruised purple, I saw it-the skeletal remains of the quarry against the horizon.

I found the warehouse she mentioned, a cavernous, derelict structure. In a dark corner, behind a pile of rusted machinery, I collapsed onto the cold concrete floor. Curling into a tight ball against the encroaching darkness, I finally let the fever claim me.