Chapter 132

Chapter 132: Chapter 132

The morning light filtered through the high windows of the royal healer’s chamber, casting pale golden rays across the stone floor. Soren sat on the edge of the examination table, his shirt removed, his body still bearing the faint scars of his ordeal. The healer, a wizened old woman named Elara who had served the Thornridge family for decades, moved around him with practiced efficiency, checking his pulse, his reflexes, his responses.

"Remarkable," she murmured for the third time that morning. "Truly remarkable. The poison is completely gone. Your Lycan blood has purged every trace of it. I’ve never seen anything like it."

"I feel... different," Soren said. "Stronger in some ways. Weaker in others."

"The weakness will pass. Your body has been through a tremendous ordeal. But the strength—" She paused, her aged eyes studying him. "The strength may be permanent. The poison nearly killed you, but it also forced your body to adapt. To evolve. Your Lycan abilities may be more powerful now than they were before."

"Powerful how?"

"Time will tell." She stepped back and wiped her hands on a cloth. "You’re fit enough to leave this room, Your Highness. I’d recommend light activity for the next few days—no training, no shifting, no strenuous exertion. But you’re well enough to see the outside world again."

The King and Queen entered the chamber just as the healer finished her assessment. Aldric’s stern face was lined with worry, but there was relief in his eyes. Seraphina looked like a woman who had been holding her breath for weeks and was finally allowed to exhale.

"Thank you, Elara," the Queen said. "We’ll take it from here."

The healer bowed and departed. The King closed the door behind her.

"Soren," he said, "we need to discuss what happens next. You can’t remain hidden forever. The realm believes you’re dead. The political situation is... complicated. If you’re to reclaim your position as crown prince, we need to announce your survival publicly."

"When?" Soren asked.

"The lunar festival is in two weeks. It’s the largest celebration of the year—every pack sends representatives to the palace city. The academies go on break a week before so students can travel with their families. It’s the perfect opportunity to reintroduce you to the realm."

Seraphina moved to her son’s side and took his hand. "The festival celebrates the goodness of the Moon Goddess. It’s a time of renewal. Of cleansing. Of casting out evil and welcoming light. If we announce your return during the festival, it will be seen as a blessing. A miracle."

"And it will also draw attention away from... other matters," the King added, his voice carefully neutral. "There are rumors circulating about what happened at the showcase. About the Moonblood heir. About the assassination attempt. We need to control the narrative before it controls us."

Soren’s golden eyes flickered. "The Moonblood heir. The woman who was accused of killing her brother."

The room went very still.

"What do you remember about her?" Seraphina asked carefully.

"Nothing. I know she existed—I’ve heard the servants whispering. I know she was at the academy. But when I try to picture her face..." He pressed his hand to his temple. "There’s nothing. Just darkness."

The King and Queen exchanged a glance. "The healer warned us not to push your memories," Seraphina said. "They’ll return in time, or they won’t. Either way, we can’t force them."

"I understand." Soren lowered his hand. "But there’s something I need to know. Was she the one who shot the arrow? The one who tried to kill me?"

"No," the King said firmly. "She wasn’t. Whoever fired that arrow is still out there. The investigation has been... slow. But now that you’re awake, we can finally make it a priority."

"Good." Soren’s voice was hard. "I want answers. And I want justice. Whoever tried to kill me—whoever was responsible for what happened at the showcase—I want them found."

"And they will be," the King promised. "But first, we announce your return. We show the realm that the crown prince is alive and strong. We remind them why the Thornridge name is feared and respected."

"When do we leave for the festival?"

"In a week. The royal procession will travel to the palace city ahead of time to prepare." The King paused. "Freya will be returning from the academy as well. She’ll be thrilled to see you again."

Soren nodded slowly. The emptiness in his chest was still there the hole where something precious had been torn away. But for the first time since waking, he felt a glimmer of purpose. A reason to keep moving forward.

"Then let’s prepare," he said. "The realm is about to learn that the crown prince is not so easy to kill."

Corvin woke to darkness and the sound of dripping water.

For a long moment, he didn’t know where he was. The last thing he remembered was the mill—the soldiers, the witch, the shadow bolt slamming into his chest. Then there had been pain. So much pain. And then... nothing.

He tried to sit up, and a hand pressed gently against his chest. "Don’t move. You’re still healing."

He turned his head. Nyra was sitting beside him, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes red from crying. She looked exhausted—dark circles under her eyes, her face pale and drawn but there was relief in her expression. Relief and something else. Something that looked almost like fear.

"Where are we?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Caves. By the river. We fled here after the battle." She paused. "Do you remember what happened?"

"The witch. She hit me with something. I couldn’t—" He stopped, his brow furrowing. "How am I still alive?"

Nyra was silent for a moment. Then she said, "I gave you my blood."

"What?"

"The witch’s magic was preventing your wolf from healing. You were losing too much blood. The supplies we had weren’t enough. So I... I offered you my blood. Moonblood blood is a universal donor. It saved your life."

Corvin stared at her. "You did what?"

"I saved your life. The same way you’ve saved mine a hundred times over."

"That’s different—"

"How is it different? You’ve bled for me. You’ve killed for me. You’ve given up everything to protect me. The least I could do was give you my blood when you needed it." Her voice cracked. "I was so scared, Corvin. I thought I was going to lose you. I thought—" She broke off, tears streaming down her face.

Corvin reached up and touched her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears. "I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere."

"You almost died."

"I’ve almost died before. It’s becoming a habit." He tried to smile. "But I’m still here. Because of you."

"You’re angry."

"I’m furious. You risked your life for me. You gave me your blood when you were already exhausted from the battle. If the transfusion had gone wrong—"

"It didn’t go wrong. You’re alive. That’s all that matters."

He pulled her down against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed. He held her, stroking her hair, murmuring soothing words.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For saving my life. Even though I’m angry about it."

She laughed—a wet, shaky sound. "You’re impossible."

"So I’ve been told."

They lay there together in the dim cave, the sound of the river echoing around them. Corvin’s chest ached—not from the wound, but from the weight of everything they had lost. But Nyra was warm in his arms, and her heartbeat was steady against his chest, and for the first time since the mill, he felt something like hope.

That night, while the others slept, Nyra slipped out of the cave.

The moon was high overhead, half and silver, casting long shadows across the river. She found a flat rock near the water’s edge and sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest. The night was quiet—just the rush of the river and the distant call of an owl.

You should be sleeping, Luna said softly.

I can’t sleep. Too much on my mind.

Corvin is doing better. The transfusion worked. He’s going to recover.

I know. But I keep thinking about everything we’ve lost. The resistance fighters who died at the mill. The civilians who trusted us to protect them. And Soren— Her voice caught. I keep thinking about Soren.

I miss him too, Luna said quietly. Every day. Kael and I were connected, just like you and Soren. I can still feel the place where he used to be.

Do you think he’s really gone?

I don’t know. When the arrow hit him, I felt the bond go dim. But it never fully broke. There’s still something there—a thread, faint and distant. I don’t know what it means.

Nyra looked up at the moon, her eyes filling with tears. "If he were still alive," she whispered, "would things be different? Would the resistance have rallied? Would Varek still be hunting me? Would I still be sitting here, alone in the dark, wondering if any of this is worth fighting for?"

Soren would tell you that it’s worth fighting for, Luna said. He would tell you to get up and keep going. He would tell you that you’re stronger than you think.

He always believed in me. Even when I didn’t believe in myself.

He still does. Wherever he is—whatever has happened to him—I believe he still believes in you.

The tears fell freely now, streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto the stone. She didn’t try to wipe them away. She had been holding everything in for so long—the grief, the fear, the guilt, the desperate, aching loneliness and she needed this moment. This release.

She cried for Soren. For Thorne. For her parents. For the resistance fighters who had died at the mill. For everything she had lost and everything she was about to lose.

And then, slowly, the tears subsided. The moon continued to shine. The river continued to flow. And Nyra felt something shift inside her—not a return of her power, not a sudden burst of strength, but something quieter. Something steadier.

Resolve, she thought. That’s what this is. Resolve.

She wiped her face and stood. The night was still quiet. The stars were still bright. And somewhere out there, in the darkness, Varek and Morgath were waiting for her.

Let them wait, she thought. I’m not done fighting yet.

She turned and walked back toward the cave, her footsteps steady on the stone.

By dawn, the survivors were ready to move.

The cave had served its purpose as a temporary refuge, but it wasn’t safe. Varek’s soldiers were still searching the river. Morgath was still out there. And Corvin’s condition, while stable, required proper treatment that the cave couldn’t provide.

"We’ll head north," Darian said, consulting the waterlogged map. "There’s a network of safe houses near the old border. Friends of the resistance. We can regroup there and plan our next move."

"How far?" Ragnar asked.

"Three days’ walk, if we push hard. Four if we’re cautious."

"Four days with wounded," Finn said grimly. "Can we make it?"

"We don’t have a choice."

Nyra stood at the edge of the group, her pack slung over her shoulder. Corvin was beside her, leaning on a makeshift crutch, his face still pale but determined. The others—Marek, Maureen, Jasper, Selene, Valeria, and the handful of survivors who had made it out of the mill—gathered around.

"We’ll travel in small groups," Nyra said. "It’ll be easier to avoid detection. We’ll meet at the first safe house on Darian’s map. If anyone gets separated, follow the river north. Don’t stop for anything."

"Understood," the group murmured.

Nyra looked at them—at her friends, her allies, her pack—and felt a surge of gratitude. They had lost so much. They had suffered so much. And still, they were here. Still fighting. Still believing.

"Let’s move," she said.

They walked out of the cave and into the gray light of dawn, leaving behind the blood and the bodies and the ashes of the mill. The road ahead was long and dangerous, and there were no guarantees that any of them would survive.

But they were moving forward. And that, Nyra thought, was what mattered.