The infirmary smelled of smoke and herbs, the sharp sting of feverweed clinging to every surface. Outside, the Eastern Pack's compound buzzed with tension, pack members pacing the halls, whispers darting from mouth to mouth like startled birds.
It was a sharp contrast from the previous day when they had been united in their ambush of Arin.
Inside, all was focused on the narrow bed where Arin lay, pale as the sheets that tangled around her.
Her breaths came shallow, uneven. Sweat slicked her brow. Her lips were colorless, cracked, and her eyes fluttered open only to roll back again, slipping into half-consciousness.
The door burst open. Vale strode in, Isolde on his heels, their footsteps echoing harshly against the stone floor.
"Where is she?" Vale demanded, his voice already raw with fear.
Sage looked up from where she bent over Arin's fragile frame. Her lined face was drawn taut with strain, and her hands trembled as she adjusted the cloth beneath Arin's head.
