Chapter 167

Chapter 167: Chapter 167

They emerged from the Shadowwood just as the sun began to set, the sky painted in shades of amber and rose. The first color they had seen in days. The air was cold and clean, a welcome relief after the suffocating darkness of the cursed forest. Freya was in Soren’s arms, her head resting against his chest, her eyes closed.

For a moment, Soren allowed himself to believe that everything was going to be alright. They had found her. They had rescued her. She was alive. She was safe.

And then Freya stirred.

"Soren," she murmured, her voice weak. "My leg hurts."

Soren paused, looking down at her. "What’s wrong?"

"I can’t... I can’t walk well. There’s an injury." She winced, her face contorting with pain. "It hurts so much."

Soren’s heart clenched. He gently set her down on the grass, kneeling beside her. "Let me see."

Freya nodded, her eyes glistening with tears. She extended her leg, and Soren carefully rolled up the torn fabric of her trousers.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

The others around gasped as they saw the wound.

The wound was deep,a gash that ran from her knee to her ankle, the flesh torn and ragged. But it wasn’t the depth of the wound that made Soren’s breath catch. It was the color.

The blood was black.

Not dark red, not brown, but black an inky, unnatural blackness that seemed to swallow the light. The skin around the wound was swollen and discolored, the veins beneath the surface standing out like dark rivers. The wound was spreading—slowly, inexorably—the blackness creeping up her leg toward her thigh.

And her wolf wasn’t healing it.

"What the hell?" Roderic breathed, his storm-gray eyes wide with horror.

Soren stared at the wound, his mind reeling. He had seen injuries before grievous wounds, infected cuts, even poison. But he had never seen anything like this. The blackness was wrong. The swelling was wrong. The way her wolf wasn’t healing it—that was wrong too. Freya was young, but her wolf was strong. Any normal wound would have begun to close by now. Any normal poison would have been fought off.

But this wasn’t normal.

"Freya." Soren’s voice was sharp with fear. "Freya, when did this happen? How did this happen?"

Freya’s eyes fluttered. "In the cell. One of them... one of them cut me. A knife. It was dark. I didn’t see..."

She slumped forward.

"Freya!" Soren caught her, shaking her gently. "Freya, wake up! Freya!"

She was unconscious. Her breathing was shallow, her face pale, her skin cold and clammy. The blackness on her leg pulsed, spreading further with every passing second.

"This is serious," Corvin said, his voice tight. "We need to get her to the palace immediately. The longer we wait, the more critical it becomes."

Soren didn’t need to be told twice. He scooped Freya into his arms and began to run.

The hidden chamber deep in the Shadowwood was alive with dark energy.

Morgath stood before a large obsidian mirror, her gnarled hands tracing symbols in the air. The mirror shimmered, its surface rippling like water, and within it, images played out—Soren running through the forest, Freya limp in his arms, the blackness spreading up her leg.

Behind her, Varek paced the length of the chamber, his face split in a cold smile. Elias stood near the door, his expression unreadable. And in the shadows at the far end of the room, a figure waited.

"The poison is working perfectly," Morgath said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Nightshade’s Kiss. I brewed it myself, centuries ago, from a recipe passed down through the Dark Coven. There is no antidote. No cure. The girl will die, slowly, painfully and there is nothing they can do to stop it."

Varek stopped pacing and turned to face her. "You’re certain?"

"I am never uncertain." Morgath’s dark eyes glittered. "The poison attacks the wolf first, then the body. It corrupts everything it touches. The healers will try their remedies, moonflower, silverleaf, holy water but none of it will work. The only way to save her would be to remove the leg entirely. And even then, the poison may have already spread too far."

Varek laughed—a cold, triumphant sound. "Then the princess is as good as dead."

"She is leverage," Morgath corrected. "A bargaining chip. The prince will do anything to save his sister. And that is exactly what we’re counting on."

Elias stepped forward, his face troubled. "What do we do now? They’ve taken her back to the palace. They’ll be expecting us to make a move."

"They’ll contact us," a voice said from the shadows.

Finn Harlan stepped into the light.

He was dressed simply—a plain tunic, dark trousers, his sandy hair falling across his forehead. But there was nothing simple about his expression. His eyes were cold, calculating, utterly without mercy.

"They’ll contact us," he repeated. "It’s only a matter of time. Soren loves his sister more than anything. He’ll do whatever it takes to save her. And when he realizes that the healers can’t cure her that no medicine in the realm can stop the poison, he’ll come to us. He’ll beg. He’ll offer anything."

Varek turned to face him, his cold smile widening. "Now we’re talking. This is the son I want."

Finn met his father’s eyes without flinching. "I’ve been playing this game longer than anyone. I know how these people think. I know their weaknesses. And I know exactly how to exploit them."

"Your brother doesn’t share your enthusiasm." Varek glanced at Elias, who was frowning.

"Elias is a soldier. He thinks in terms of battles and weapons. I think in terms of people." Finn stepped closer to the mirror, watching the image of Soren running through the forest. "The prince is strong. But he’s also emotional. He loves his sister, his mother, his father. He loves Nyra even now, even after everything. And that love makes him vulnerable."

Morgath smirked. "It was always going to happen sooner or later."

"What was?" Elias asked.

"The rivalry between my two sons." Varek’s voice was cold. "Elias wants power. Finn wants control. They’ve been circling each other for years, each waiting for the other to slip. But now—now we have an opportunity. A chance to unite them. A chance to strike a blow against the Thornridge line that they will never recover from."

He turned to Morgath. "Can you track them? Can you see what they’re doing?"

Morgath waved her hand, and the mirror shifted. The image changed—now showing the palace, the healing chamber, the healers working frantically over Freya’s unconscious body.

"They’re trying everything," she said. "But nothing will work. The poison is too strong. The girl is dying."

"How long does she have?"

"Three days. Maybe four. After that, not even the Moon Goddess herself could save her."

Varek nodded slowly. "Then we wait. We let them exhaust themselves. We let them try every remedy, every prayer, every desperate plea. And when they’ve exhausted all hope when they have nowhere else to turn they will come to us."

"And then?" Elias asked.

"And then we offer them a deal. The antidote, a fake one because there’s no antidote for the poison. In exchange for the throne. For the kingdom. For everything."

"You think they’ll agree?"

"I know they will." Varek smiled. "Because they have no other choice."

Finn stepped back into the shadows, his expression unreadable. Elias watched him, his jaw tight. There was tension between them, a rivalry that had been simmering for years, waiting to boil over.

But for now, they had a common enemy. And a common goal.

"The Thornridge line ends with this generation," Varek said. "And it starts with the girl."

He laughed—a cold, cruel sound that echoed through the chamber.

And in the mirror, the image of Freya’s blackening leg pulsed like a heartbeat.

The run back to the palace was a blur of trees and darkness and terror. Soren ran faster than he had ever run in his life, his lungs burning, his muscles screaming, his heart pounding with a fear that eclipsed everything else. Freya was limp in his arms, her breathing shallow, her skin growing colder by the minute. The blackness on her leg was visible even through the fabric of her trousers a dark stain that seemed to pulse with its own malevolent life.

Corvin ran beside him, his face pale, his eyes fixed on Freya’s leg. Ragnar and Roderic flanked them, their weapons drawn, scanning the darkness for any sign of pursuit. But no one was following them. Varek had let them go.

Why? Soren thought, the question burning in his mind. Why would he let us take her?

He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t have time for answers. All he could do was run.

They reached the palace gates just as the last light of day faded from the sky. The guards saw them coming and opened the gates, their faces registering shock at the sight of the prince, covered in dirt and blood, carrying his unconscious sister in his arms.

"Get the healers!" Corvin shouted. "Now! It’s an emergency!"

Soren didn’t stop. He pushed through the gates and into the courtyard, his eyes fixed on the palace doors. The Queen was there she had been waiting, pacing, her face pale with worry. When she saw Soren, she ran toward him, her arms outstretched.

"Soren! You found her! You—"

She stopped. The look on Soren’s face made her freeze in her tracks.

He was crying.

The Ice Wolf. The Sword Sovereign. The crown prince who had never shed a tear in public, who had faced death and pain and loss without flinching. He was crying.

"What’s wrong?" Seraphina’s voice was sharp with fear. "Soren, what’s wrong? Is she—is Freya—"

"She’s alive." Soren’s voice was raw. "But she’s hurt. Mother, she’s hurt badly."

Corvin appeared beside them, his face pale. "I’m sorry, Your Majesty. It’s an emergency. We need the healers immediately."

Emergency. The word echoed through the courtyard like a death knell. The King appeared, his face drawn, his eyes fixed on his unconscious daughter.

"Emergency?" Seraphina’s voice was barely a whisper. "What kind of emergency?"

Soren couldn’t speak. He could only hold Freya tighter, his tears falling onto her pale face.

"Her leg," Corvin said quietly. "She has a wound on her leg. It’s... it’s poisoned. The blackness is spreading. Her wolf isn’t healing it."

Seraphina rushed forward, her hands reaching for her daughter. "Let me see."

Soren lowered Freya gently to the ground. His mother knelt beside her, her hands trembling as she rolled up the torn fabric of Freya’s trousers.

She screamed.

It was a sound that no one in the palace had ever heard before, the sound of a mother’s heart breaking. Seraphina covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide with horror, her body shaking.

The King rushed to her side. When he saw the wound, he went completely still.

The blackness had spread further. It now covered most of Freya’s lower leg, the skin swollen and discolored, the veins beneath the surface standing out like dark rivers. The wound itself was still open, still weeping, black blood oozing from the torn flesh. The air around it smelled of decay and corruption.

"What... what is this?" the King breathed.

"I don’t know," Corvin admitted. "But it’s killing her. Her wolf can’t fight it. We need to get her to the healers now."

The healers arrived moments later. They descended on Freya like a flock of birds, their hands glowing with healing magic, their faces grim. Lord Eldritch, Corvin’s father and the head of the royal healers, led them, his sharp eyes taking in the wound with clinical precision.

"Get her inside," he ordered. "To the healing chamber. Now. And bring me every antidote we have in stock. Every herb, every potion, every remedy. We’re going to need all of it."

Soren watched as they lifted his sister onto a stretcher and carried her toward the palace. The blackness on her leg pulsed, as if in response to the movement. Freya didn’t stir. She didn’t make a sound.

She looked like she was already dead.