The first needle came out of Finn Cross’s neck slick with black blood. Abigail Foster froze, medical tweezers trembling between her fingers. It was nearly two inches long. Silver. Barbed. Painted matte black.

The first needle came out of Finn Cross’s neck slick with black blood.

Abigail Foster froze, medical tweezers trembling between her fingers.

It was nearly two inches long.

Silver. Barbed. Painted matte black.

Finn whimpered in the warm bath beneath her hands. In his wolf form, the two-year-old heir to the Northern Territories was barely larger than a house cat. His wet black fur clung to a body so thin Abigail could count every single rib through his trembling ribcage.

Everyone at Obsidian Ridge said the Alpha King’s son was dying.

Doctors from three neighboring packs had treated him for nearly his entire life. Renowned specialists had thrown up their hands in defeat. His skin constantly erupted in painful, weeping lesions. He scratched at his neck until his fur was soaked with fresh blood. Powerful sedatives—heavy doses of Wolfsbane-laced liquid—were the only thing that kept him quiet through the long, agonizing nights.

But Abigail had noticed things no one else talked about during her two weeks as the lowest-ranking maid in the Royal Wing.

Finn looked utterly terrified whenever the head physician, Dr. Corvus, entered his nursery.

His caregivers scrubbed their hands obsessively after touching the boy, whispering about "contagious rot."

And his daily medicated bathwater smelled harsh enough to sting Abigail's throat from across the marble bathroom.

That night, with Alpha King Torin Cross and the high council away at the annual Blood Moon gathering five miles south, Abigail had been ordered to bathe the prince, lock his nursery door, and leave him to rest.

Instead of using the dark, chemical-smelling water prepared by the head nurse, Abigail had secretly dumped it down the drain.

She filled the deep porcelain tub with clean, lukewarm water, added a splash of crushed lavender, lifted the trembling little wolf into her arms, and began gently washing his matted, neglected fur.

Then Finn shrieked—a sound of pure, ragged agony.

Something razor-sharp punctured the flesh of Abigail’s right index finger.

She gasped, pulling her hand back as a single drop of her own crimson blood fell into the clear bathwater. Gently, her heart pounding against her ribs, she parted the dark, soaked fur behind the toddler's left ear.

That was when she found the first needle.

It had been driven so deep into the delicate muscle beneath his ear that only the rounded, matte-black eye protruded above his skin, entirely hidden by thick, matted fur.

Now the dark metal pin lay on a white towel beside the tub, dripping black, stagnant blood onto the terry cloth.

Abigail stared at Finn, her stomach twisting into a sickening knot.

She parted the wet fur on the other side of his neck.

Another black point gleamed beneath his inflamed, swollen skin.

And suddenly, Abigail understood one terrifying, undeniable truth: whatever was happening to the Alpha King’s only son was not an illness. It was not a genetic rot.

It was torture. It was a slow, systematic execution disguised as a tragic medical mystery.

She reached for the tweezers again, her hands shaking so violently she nearly dropped them into the tub.

"Hold still, sweet boy," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I've got you. I'm so sorry."

Finn didn’t bite her. He didn't growl. The little prince only trembled against her forearm, burying his small black snout into the crook of her elbow as she carefully gripped the second black point and began pulling.

It kept coming.

Far longer than she expected.

The metal groaned against bone before it finally slid free with a wet, sickening pop.

Finn let out a tiny, breathless cry, his body going limp against Abigail’s chest.

Abigail wiped the tears from her eyes, cleared the steam from her vision, and looked down at his soaked fur along his spine.

Another dark glint reflected beneath the halogen lights.

And another.

Under the thick, black coat of the Royal Pack's sole heir lay a hidden armor of malicious iron and silver, deliberately driven into his tiny body to poison his blood, suppress his wolf, and kill him inch by inch before his third birthday.

Abigail pulled a fresh breath into her lungs, reached for the medical tray, and set her jaw.

She wasn't just a maid. Before her family was destroyed and she was forced into domestic service, she had spent three years training as an apothecary apprentice in the Southern Reaches. She knew dark magic when she saw it.