Chapter 2 - The Silent Harvest
The grandfather clock in the grand hallway chimed eleven times. Deep, booming reverberations echoed through the quiet stone corridors of Obsidian Ridge.
Abigail worked in absolute, frantic silence.
Every minute the Blood Moon council lasted was borrowed time. If Dr. Corvus or Head Nurse Rebecca returned early from the lower courtyard and found her touching the prince without authorization, Abigail wouldn't just be fired—she would be executed for treason. In the Northern Territories, messing with royal medical care was a offense punishable by the silver rope.
Three.
A three-inch needle slid out from between Finn's tiny shoulder blades. The tip was coated in a viscous, foul-smelling black resin that burned Abigail's bare skin on contact. Dark Moon Resin—a rare, forbidden potion designed to stunt werewolf regeneration and rot bone marrow from the inside out.
Four.
Five.
Six.
With every piece of black silver Abigail extracted, Finn’s tiny wolf body shivered violently, his lungs gasping for clear air as the dark magic holding his chest tight began to loosen its grip. Blood, black and thick as tar at first, poured from the small puncture wounds before his natural werewolf healing—starved for months—began to spark back to life. The black blood slowly yielded to bright, healthy crimson.
"Good boy," Abigail whispered, her tears dripping into the bathwater. She used clean cotton pads soaked in witch hazel to sanitize each hole. "You're so brave, Finn. So brave."
By the time she reached his lower spine, the metal tray beside the tub was filled with a terrifying collection.
Twenty-one.
Twenty-two.
They were placed strategically along his secondary nervous system. Whoever had driven these needles into the child possessed master-level anatomical knowledge. A quarter-inch deeper to the left, and Finn would have been paralyzed. A quarter-inch to the right, and his heart would have stopped instantly. They weren't trying to kill him quickly; they were draining his life force slowly enough to make it look like a tragic, uncurable genetic wasting disease.
And the head physician, Dr. Corvus, was the only person who handled Finn's body during his daily "examinations."
Abigail’s blood ran cold as the realization fully landed.
The entire royal medical staff was in on it.
Why? Torin Cross was an absolute ruler—a feared, iron-fisted Alpha King whose dark wolf had conquered five neighboring territories in three years. His mate, Queen Elena, had passed away shortly after giving birth to Finn. Without an heir, if Finn died, the royal line would pass to Torin’s younger brother, Lord Vance—a charismatic, silver-tongued warrior who spent far too much time whispering in Dr. Corvus's ear near the eastern wing.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine.
Abigail’s hands were slick with black blood and lavender water. Her back pounded with tension. Finn had stopped whimpering. His dark hazel eyes, previously clouded with heavy sedatives, were beginning to clear. He stared up at Abigail, his tiny wet paws resting on her blood-stained apron.
"Almost done, little prince," she whispered, her fingers gently probing the muscle tissue around his tiny hips. "Just a few more."
She found four more clustered around his hind legs—barbs designed to prevent his wolf form from ever walking properly, ensuring he looked crippled and weak to the elders of the pack.
Then, buried deep beneath his sternum, right above his tiny, beating heart, her fingers brushed against a thick, metallic ridge.
The thirty-fourth needle.
This one was different. It wasn't matte black. It was solid, pure wolf-killing silver, etched with microscopic runes that pulsed with a faint, nauseating purple light.
A Binding Spike.
Abigail stopped breathing. If she pulled this one wrong, the sudden release of dark energy could rupture his main artery. But if she left it in, the silver would reach his heart valve within forty-eight hours.
Down the hallway, heavy iron doors slammed shut.
Footsteps echoed on the polished marble floor.
"Make sure the child's draft is prepared," Dr. Corvus's voice cut through the silence of the corridor, coming closer. "The Alpha King will want to inspect the boy as soon as the ceremonial feast concludes."
"He's getting weaker, Doctor," Nurse Rebecca replied, her voice approaching the nursery outer door. "He won't survive the week."
"Good. That is precisely the timeline Lord Vance requested."
Abigail’s heart slammed into her throat.
They were outside the nursery door. In less than twenty seconds, they would turn the brass key in the lock.
Abigail looked down at Finn. The little wolf looked back at her, his dark eyes filled with a terrifyingly adult understanding. He pressed his wet nose against her chin, letting out a silent, soft exhale.
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"Hold on to me, Finn," Abigail breathed.
She grabbed the head of the thirty-fourth needle with her bare fingers, ignored the searing silver-burn that instantly blackened her skin, and pulled with everything she had.
