The kitchen was a furnace. Sweat rolled down my spine, soaking the collar of my tunic as I hauled a copper pot of boiling water across the flagstones. The air was thick with the scent of seared venison and heavy cream, a cloying richness that made my stomach churn.
Above us, the palace hummed. I could feel the vibrations of a thousand footsteps through the soles of my boots. The gala was an hour away. The elite of the Black Ridge were currently dressing in silks and furs, preparing to watch Alpha Vane claim a woman who wasn't his mate.
I set the pot down with a dull thud, my breath coming in short, shallow hitches.
"Move it, Kaelen! Those basins won't fill themselves."
The head cook, a stout woman with a voice like a hacksaw, shoved a stack of silver platters into my arms. I didn't snap back. I didn't have the energy. The mountain ash was sitting in my gut like a lead weight, but for the first time in five years, the weight was shifting.
A sharp, electric needle of pain shot through my left wrist. I gasped, nearly dropping the silver.
"Careful with those!" the cook barked, her eyes narrowing. "You look pale. If you're going to faint, do it in the courtyard. I don't need a wolfless girl shedding skin in my gravy."
"I'm fine," I lied.
The words felt like ash in my mouth. I walked toward the back scullery, my steps heavy and uncoordinated. Something was wrong. The numbness my father had promised was fraying at the edges. Usually, the medicine made my head feel like it was stuffed with wool. Today, the world was too loud. Too bright.
I could hear the individual droplets of water hitting the floor in the next room. I could smell the iron in the blood of the raw meat on the butcher's block. It was a sensory assault that made my skin feel like a suit of needles.
I ducked into the narrow hallway that led to the servant's stairs. I needed a second of silence. I leaned my forehead against the cool, damp stone of the wall, closing my eyes.
Thump-thump.
My heart wasn't beating. It was drumming.
A shadow fell over the floor. I opened my eyes to see my father standing at the end of the hall. He looked frantic. His tunic was disheveled, and his hands were stained with the dark purple juice of crushed hemlock.
"Kaelen," he whispered, rushing toward me. He grabbed my shoulders, his fingers digging into my arms. "How do you feel? Tell me exactly."
"Like I'm vibrating," I said, my voice trembling. "Dad, the ash... it isn't working. It feels like it's boiling."
Silas went ghost-white. He pulled another vial from his pocket—this one dark, almost black. "Drink this. Now. I had to double the concentration. The moon is pulling at you, Kaelen. It's stronger than the previous years."
"I can't take more," I argued, pushing his hand away. "It makes me feel dead. I want to breathe."
"If you breathe, you die!" he hissed, his voice a jagged edge of panic. "Vane is already looking for you. He asked the guards why the 'scullery ghost' was staring at him in the hall. He sensed something, even if he doesn't know what it is yet. If you shift in front of him, he will kill you before your bones even finish moving."
He forced the vial into my hand. His eyes were watering, a desperate plea written in the lines of his face.
I looked at the black liquid. I looked at the man who had spent my entire life trying to keep me small so I could stay safe.
I drank it.
The effect was instantaneous and horrific. It felt like liquid ice was being poured directly into my veins. The sharpening senses vanished, replaced by a grey, suffocating fog. My heart slowed until it was a sluggish crawl. The pain in my wrist died, replaced by a hollow ache.
"Good," Silas exhaled, leaning his head against the wall. "Good. Just stay in the laundry. Don't go near the Great Hall. Once the moon sets, the pressure will ease."
He patted my cheek, a gesture that felt like a goodbye, and hurried back toward the infirmary.
I stood in the dark hallway, my limbs feeling like they belonged to someone else. I felt like a puppet with its strings pulled too tight.
I dragged myself toward the laundry room, but a commotion at the end of the corridor stopped me. Two warriors were escorting a line of young women toward the grand staircase. They were the "candidates"...high-born shifters from neighboring packs invited to witness the union.
Isolde was leading them. She looked like a goddess of winter in a gown of white fur and diamonds. She stopped when she saw me, her lip curling in a familiar, predatory sneer.
"Still in your rags, I see," she said, her voice carrying easily to the other women.
One of the candidates, a blonde girl with the sharp scent of a fox, giggled. "Is that her? The one they say has no soul?"
"That's her," Isolde confirmed, walking toward me. She reached out and plucked a piece of lint from my shoulder, her fingers grazing my neck. Her touch was cold. "The High Healer's little project. A twenty-one-year-old human living in a wolf's den. It's almost cruel, isn't it? Like keeping a flightless bird in a golden cage."
I stared at the floor, my mind sluggish from the black medicine. "I have work to do, Lady Isolde."
"You have a departure to prepare for," she corrected. Her voice dropped, becoming a lethal whisper meant for my ears alone. "Vane wasn't joking. After tonight, you aren't just an outcast. You're a memory. I'll personally see to it that the guards escort you to the border. I wonder how long a girl with 'dead blood' lasts in the Forbidden Lands?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and led the women away, their laughter trailing behind them like a taunt.
I watched them go. My vision blurred for a second, a flash of red staining the edges of the grey fog.
Crack.
The sound came from inside my chest. It wasn't a bone breaking. It was something deeper. The black ash had met a wall it couldn't climb.
I didn't go to the laundry.
I walked toward the kitchen doors, my feet moving of their own accord. I could feel the Blood Moon through the roof of the palace. It was a heavy, magnetic pull, a silent command that was louder than my father's fear.
The gala was starting. The music began to swell, the deep, rhythmic thrum of drums that mimicked a heartbeat.
I reached the service entrance of the Great Hall and pulled the heavy velvet curtain back just an inch.
The room was a blur of gold and fire. Vane was on his throne, his eyes cold and distant. Isolde was at his side, her hand on his knee, her face a mask of triumph.
The air in the room felt heavy. To everyone else, it was the scent of a celebration. To me, it felt like a meal.
The heat started again. Not in my joints this time, but in my soul. It burned through the black medicine like a wildfire through dry grass.
I gripped the curtain until my knuckles turned white. My father had lied. The ash wasn't a cure. It was a dam.
And the dam was about to burst.