Chapter 3

The black wolf survived.

I had no idea how it pulled through.

The first three days, it barely moved. More than once I suspected it had already died.

On the fourth morning, I was woken by a faint rustling. I looked down to find it clumsily climbing out of the blanket on three legs, bead-black eyes darting around, nose twitching as it sniffed the air.

I scooped it back up and scratched its head.

"From now on in this Silvercrown tribe, we've only got each other." I told it solemnly. "Don't worry—I'll take good care of you."

It tilted its head, studied me for a moment, then nudged my palm with its nose.

Cool. Damp.

I gave it a name: Little White.

It was pitch-black. "Little White" was objectively wrong. But I'd grown up in the Abyss and had no talent for naming things. After thinking for ages, this was the best I could manage.

It seemed less than thrilled. Every time I called "Little White," its ears would flatten back, and it would fix me with a look of subtle displeasure.

But it always responded.

Cassian came on the fifth day.

He apparently hadn't expected any corner of the tribe to be this decrepit. He stood in the center of the courtyard, brow furrowed, surveying the ruin, mouth pulled into a grimace that roughly translated to this is unfit for human habitation.

"Down to business." He pinned me with a stare. "The Alpha went to the Bonewaste Marsh alone—to find ingredients to regrow Liliana's finger."

My hand went still.

Bonewaste Marsh.

The name alone told you everything. The corrosive force inside the marsh could eat through any defense. Even the strongest Alpha who set foot in it would have their flesh stripped away inch by inch.

A warrior from the tribe had once stumbled onto the marsh's edge—one foot in the mud—and the entire lower leg had rotted down to the bone.

Adrian had gone to a place like that.

For one of Liliana's fingers.

"He retrieved the materials the healer needed." Cassian's voice was level. "The healer used them to brew a Scarsbane potion. Limb regeneration. Liliana's pinky has been fully restored."

Fully restored.

Cassian's gaze drifted, perhaps unconsciously, to my left hand.

I knew what he was looking at.

"There's some potion left over." His tone stayed flat. "Considering you spent five years at his side—and you're technically still his Luna—if you went and asked, he might spare you some. Your finger…"

He didn't finish.

Little White stirred in my lap, bumping its head against my wrist.

I looked down at it. Black fur, sleek and soft, gleaming faintly in the daylight. Its severed leg was wrapped in gauze I'd cut and wound myself—crooked, uneven, not pretty.

Go and ask?

The thought made one full loop through my head.

I imagined the scene: walking into the rooms I'd lived in for five years, Adrian glancing at me with that familiar indifference. Me, head bowed, respectful: Please give me the leftover Scarsbane so my finger can grow back.

What would he say?

I ran my hand over Little White's smooth fur and said nothing.