Kaya
"Would you like a glass of water?" Serena asks, jerking her chin toward the bedside table. "I’m afraid you can’t eat just yet—the dicine is still clashing with solid food. You don’t seem to be able to keep it down."
"The dicine?" I repeat like a dazed parrot.
She taps her fingers lightly against the inside of my elbow, and only then do I notice the IV line connected to my arm. A clear plastic bag drips steadily above , and the sight brings a fleeting sense of relief. At least it isn’t blood.
Though I’m not sure that makes it any better.
"It’s a sedative," she explains, lifting her wrist to glance at the ti on her old-fashioned watch. "I can disconnect it now, if you’d like to stretch your legs. In fact, I think it would do you good."
"I can walk around?" My voice cos out louder than I expect, brimming with sudden, reckless excitent. "Where is... where is Damien?"
"Mr. Windthorne has given permission. You can walk around if you wish." Serena replies with a small nod as she carefully slides the needle from my skin.
I exhale, unsettled. It doesn’t feel right. Why would he let move freely—even inside the pack house? And am I even still in the pack house?
A thousand questions flood my mind, each one sharper than the last, until pain lances through my skull like a ruptured artery. I want to press Serena for answers, but so instinct warns to hold my tongue.
If I can walk, maybe I can find the truth on my own.
"So..." I begin cautiously, "can I go then?"
A soft chuckle slips from the woman’s thin lips as she rises from her chair, a gesture ant to show that I’m indeed free to leave. "Make sure you return if you start feeling sick again. I’ll be waiting."
Suspicion lingers in my chest like a stubborn thorn I can’t pull out, but I still push myself to rise. The mont I’m on my feet, the truth becos undeniable—I am so dizzy and weak that even if I wanted to run or hide, my body would betray . I don’t think I can walk around much in this state.
Serena pays no further mind, though. As soon as I stand, she settles into a rocking chair beside the silver cage, draws a small, worn book from the deep pocket of her robe, and begins to read, as if I’ve already ceased to exist.
I move toward the door as quietly as I can, pausing at the threshold to steal a careful glance at the witch. She doesn’t look up. Taking a steadying breath, I wrap my fingers around the cold tal doorknob and twist. Relief trickles through when the door opens without resistance.
The hallway beyond is long and dim, the weak light barely cutting through the gloom. It stretches endlessly in both directions, lined with black doors—each one tall and dark, as though they’re guarding more prisoners like .
The thought chills . I wonder if I’m right.
I choose to move forward. I don’t dare touch the other doors just yet, only walk straight ahead, hoping to understand where I am.
This isn’t the Dark Wood pack house. And if it is, then it’s a part of it I’ve never seen before.
At last, I halt—my path cut off by a dead end. The shadows and the fog in my mind had hidden it until now. Sohow, I feel disappointed. I don’t know what I was trying to find here.
With nowhere else left to go and nothing else to do, I press my palm against the wall and make another decision––I’ll start going for the doors.
And the first door I try swings open so easily that I almost stumble forward into the room, startled by the lack of resistance.
"Well, it’s about fucking ti."
The sarcastic greeting freezes in place, my hand tightening on the cold tal doorknob before I force myself to let go.
The room before mirrors mine in nearly every detail, except for one striking difference—there’s no silver cage. The air feels colder here, the emptiness pressing against the walls. A single bed rests in the corner with two nightstands at its sides, while a small desk sits at the center, flanked by two chairs facing one another.
And in one of those chairs sits Camilla.
But this isn’t the Camilla I rember. Gone is the powerful, untouchable Luna who once carried herself with the weight of command. What sits before is the hollow shell of an alpha woman.
Her long dark hair hangs in tangled waves, her skin has lost its luster and turned pale, and her once-fierce eyes are dull, stripped of their fire. Even her hands—those steady, commanding hands—tremble against the surface of the table, betraying her fragility. A chill spreads through , unbidden, as the question claws its way to the forefront of my mind: what the hell happened to her while I was gone?
"What?" Camilla’s cold voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade, sharp enough to make flinch. "You think I look terrible? You look like shit yourself, silver bitch."
For a mont, I don’t know what to feel—offended at her words, or strangely relieved that, beneath her disheveled state, she’s still the sa Camilla Theon who spits venom without hesitation.
"Thanks," I manage to rasp at last, my voice rough. I cover the awkward crack in it with a cough and add dryly, "I was aiming for that look."
To my surprise, Camilla lets out a low chuckle, her lips curving faintly as a fleeting light sparks in her eyes—only to vanish as quickly as it ca. Her trembling hand gestures toward the empty chair across from her, and that’s when I finally notice it: a chessboard sits before her on the table, perfectly arranged, yet untouched. Not a single piece has been moved.
It’s almost as if... she’s been waiting for soone to play with.
"Don’t just stand there like an idiot," she snaps, cutting through the silence. "Close the fucking door and sit down."
And to my own surprise, I don’t feel the urge to resist that... strangely heartfelt invitation.
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