Chapter 168

Chapter 168: Chapter 168

The healing chamber was a large room filled with beds and shelves and the smell of herbs. The healers worked frantically, their hands glowing with magic, their voices urgent. Lord Eldritch stood at the center of it all, directing the effort with the precision of a general commanding an army.

"Antidote of moonflower and silverleaf," he ordered. "Two drops under the tongue, every hour. A poultice of crushed nightshade and holy water applied directly to the wound. And I want a full analysis of the black blood—I need to know what we’re dealing with."

"What is it?" Soren demanded. He was standing by the door, his hands clenched into fists, his golden eyes blazing. "What did they do to her?"

Lord Eldritch paused, his face grim. "It’s a poison, Your Highness. A very rare one. I’ve only seen it once before—in the records of the Dark Coven. It’s called Nightshade’s Kiss. It’s designed to destroy the wolf first, then the body. It spreads through the bloodstream, corrupting everything it touches."

"Is there an antidote?"

Lord Eldritch was silent for a moment. "I don’t know. The records are incomplete. But we’re doing everything we can."

"Then do more." Soren’s voice cracked. "She’s my sister. She’s just a child. You have to save her."

Lord Eldritch met his eyes. "We will do everything in our power, Your Highness. I promise."

The King and Queen sat in the corner of the healing chamber, their hands clasped, their faces pale. Seraphina had stopped crying, she was too exhausted for tears now. She just stared at her daughter, lying on the bed, the blackness creeping further up her leg with every passing hour.

"It’s my fault," she whispered. "I should have protected her."

"It’s not your fault," the King said quietly. "It’s no one’s fault except the monsters who did this."

"Who? Who would do this to a child?"

"We’ll find out. And they will pay."

Soren stood by the window, watching his sister’s chest rise and fall. Each breath was shallow, weaker than the last. The blackness had reached her thigh now, spreading faster than the healers could stop it.

He had never felt so helpless in his life.

And then—a voice. A woman’s voice, soft and distant, echoing in the back of his mind.

You have one week.

The Moon Goddess’s words from his dream. The sacrifice she had asked of him. The choice he had to make.

A soul for a soul.

He closed his eyes. The tears came again hot and silent and unstoppable.

I can’t lose her, he thought. I can’t lose Freya. I can’t lose Nyra. I can’t lose anyone else.

But the choice was there, hanging over him like a blade.

One week.

He looked at his sister’s face—so pale, so fragile, so young.

I have to save her. Whatever it takes.

The healing chamber had become a prison.

The windows were shuttered, the doors guarded, the air thick with the scent of herbs and incense and desperation. Candles burned in every corner, their flames flickering as if they too were struggling to survive. The healers moved in a constant, silent stream checking Freya’s pulse, changing her bandages, administering potions that did nothing.

And in the center of it all, the princess lay on a bed of white linen, her face pale as death, her chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths.

The blackness had reached her hip.

Soren sat beside her, holding her hand. He had been there for hours or maybe days; time had lost all meaning. His golden eyes were fixed on his sister’s face, searching for any sign of improvement, any flicker of hope. But there was nothing. Just the slow, inexorable spread of the poison.

She’s dying, he thought. My little sister is dying.

He squeezed her hand, as if he could somehow hold her to this world by sheer force of will. "I’m here, Freya. I’m right here. You’re not alone."

She didn’t respond. She hadn’t spoken since the Shadowwood. She hadn’t opened her eyes.

The door opened, and the Queen entered. Seraphina looked like a ghost, her face pale, her eyes red, her hair unkempt. She had not slept. She had not eaten. She had barely left her daughter’s side since they returned to the palace.

"How is she?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

"The same," Soren said quietly. "The blackness is still spreading."

Seraphina crossed the room and sat on the other side of the bed. She took Freya’s other hand, her fingers trembling.

"My baby," she whispered. "My little girl."

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Freya’s forehead.

"I’m sorry," she said, her voice breaking. "I’m so sorry. I should have protected you. I should have been there. I should have—"

"Mother." Soren’s voice was firm. "This isn’t your fault."

"Then whose fault is it? Who did this to her?"

"Varek. Morgath. Elias. The people who have been trying to destroy our family from the beginning." Soren’s jaw tightened. "And when I find them, I’m going to make them pay."

Seraphina looked at him at the rage in his golden eyes, at the grief etched into every line of his face. He was so young. He had already suffered so much. And now this.

"I can’t lose her," she whispered. "I can’t lose another child."

"You won’t." Soren squeezed her hand. "We’ll find a way. We have to."

The King arrived an hour later.

Aldric Thornridge had aged ten years in the past week. His hair seemed grayer, his face more lined, his shoulders more bowed. He had been meeting with his advisors, his generals, his spies—trying to find a way to save his daughter. But every lead had led nowhere. Every plan had failed.

He stood in the doorway of the healing chamber, looking at his wife and son and daughter. They were gathered around Freya’s bed like mourners at a funeral. The sight made his heart clench.

"How is she?" he asked, though he already knew.

"No change," Soren said.

The King crossed the room and stood at the foot of the bed. He looked down at his daughter at her pale face, at her closed eyes, at the blackness that was slowly consuming her.

"I remember the day she was born," he said quietly. "She was so small. So fragile. The healer said she might not survive the night. But she did. She fought. She’s always been a fighter."

"She still is," Soren said. "She’s still fighting."

"Is she?" The King’s voice was heavy. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like she’s losing."

No one answered. There was nothing to say.

Lord Eldritch worked through the night.

The head healer was a man of science, of reason, of logic. He had spent his life studying the body, the wolf, the magic that bound them together. He had cured plagues, healed wounds, saved lives that others had given up for lost.

But this—this was beyond him.

He had tried everything. Moonflower extract, silverleaf poultice, holy water, blessed herbs. He had consulted the ancient texts, the forbidden tomes, the records of the Dark Coven. He had sent riders to every corner of the realm, seeking rare ingredients, forgotten remedies, anything that might help.

Nothing worked.

The blackness continued to spread. It had reached Freya’s stomach now, the veins beneath her skin standing out like dark rivers. Her breathing was labored, her pulse weak. Her wolf had stopped responding entirely—the poison had destroyed it.

"There has to be something," Lord Eldritch muttered, pacing the length of his laboratory. "There has to be."

His assistants watched him with worried eyes. They had never seen him like this desperate, frantic, on the verge of breaking.

"Master," one of them said quietly. "Perhaps we should consider... amputation."

Lord Eldritch stopped. He had considered it—of course he had. It was the only logical solution. Remove the infected limb before the poison spread further. Save the girl’s life at the cost of her leg.

But the poison had already spread too far. It was in her bloodstream now, in her organs, in her very bones. Amputation would do nothing but cause more pain.

"There is no cure," he said finally. "Nothing in the realm can save her."

He sank into a chair, his head in his hands.

"We’ve failed."

Soren was the one who told his parents.

He stood before them in the healing chamber, his face pale, his golden eyes hollow. Lord Eldritch stood beside him, his expression one of profound grief.

"There’s no cure," Soren said, his voice barely a whisper. "Nothing in the realm can save her."

Seraphina stared at him. "What?"

"The poison is too strong. It’s already in her bloodstream, her organs. The healers have tried everything. Nothing works."

"No." Seraphina shook her head. "No, that’s not—there has to be something. There has to be—"

"Mother." Soren took her hands. "I’m sorry."

Seraphina broke. She collapsed against him, sobbing, her body shaking with grief. The King stood frozen, his face a mask of pain.

"How long?" he asked.

Lord Eldritch answered. "A day . Maybe hours. After that—"

He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

Soren held his mother, his own tears falling freely. He had never felt so helpless. So useless. So utterly defeated.

I can’t save her, he thought. I can’t save my own sister.

And then—a voice. A woman’s voice, soft and distant, echoing in the back of his mind.

You have Three days left .

The Moon Goddess’s words from his dream. The sacrifice she had asked of him.

A soul for a soul.

He closed his eyes. The choice was there, hanging over him like a blade.

Three days.

But Freya didn’t have Three days. She had one day. Maybe hours.

I have to choose. I have to decide. Before it’s too late.

He looked at his sister, at her pale face, at her closed eyes, at the blackness that was slowly consuming her.

I have to save her. Whatever it takes.

In the Moon Court, Nyra felt it.

The bond between her and Soren was stretched thin, but it was still there—and through it, she could feel his grief, his fear, his desperation. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Freya, she thought. Something’s happened to Freya.

She reached out with her power, searching for a vision, searching for any glimpse of the mortal realm. The silver light flickered weakly she was still exhausted from her last attempt but she pushed through the pain, through the exhaustion, through the limits of her strength.

And then she saw it.

Freya, lying on a bed, her face pale as death. The blackness spreading up her leg. The healers working frantically around her. And Soren, sitting beside her, holding her hand, tears streaming down his face.

No, Nyra thought. No, no, no.

She tried to reach him—tried to speak, to warn, to help. But the connection was too weak. She could only watch.

I have to do something. I have to help.

She scrambled to her feet and ran to find her mother.

The Moon Goddess was in the great hall, seated on her throne of moonlight, surrounded by her heavenly council. She looked up when Nyra entered, her expression unreadable.

"Mother," Nyra said, breathless. "I need to go back. Freya is dying. She’s been poisoned. I have to save her."

The goddess’s expression didn’t change. "Freya is not your concern."

"She’s Soren’s sister. She’s an innocent child. And she’s dying because of me—because of the people who want to destroy your daughter." Nyra stepped closer. "Please. Let me go back. Let me save her."

"No."

"Mother—"

"I said no." The goddess’s voice was ice. "You are not leaving the Moon Court. Not now. Not ever."

"Then give me the knowledge," Nyra pleaded. "Tell me how to cure the poison. Tell me how to save her. I’ll do anything."

The goddess was silent for a long moment. Then she shook her head.

"There is no cure. The poison was created by the Dark Coven, by Morgath’s ancestors. It is designed to kill. There is no antidote."

"There has to be. There has to be something."

"There isn’t." The goddess’s voice softened, just slightly. "I’m sorry, Nyra. But Freya is going to die. And there is nothing you can do to stop it."

Nyra stared at her. The tears came—hot and relentless.

"No," she whispered. "No, I won’t accept that. I won’t let her die."

She turned and ran out of the great hall, her heart pounding, her mind racing.

There has to be a way. There has to be.

But even as she thought it, she knew the truth.

There wasn’t.