“I’m sorry, Ms. Sinclair,” the healer murmured, his voice low and heavy with the kind of sorrow only years of tending broken wolves could teach. “We have tried every remedy known to the Moon. But your brother… his wolf has withdrawn too deeply. It is as if his spirit has turned its back on this world. He no longer struggles to return.”
The words pierced through me like a blade sliding between ribs.
For a moment, the air refused to enter my lungs.
I forced myself to breathe slowly, deliberately. If I shattered now, I would never gather the pieces again—and Marcus had no one else left to stand for him.
So I nodded once, stiffly, like a statue carved from Lutherford stone, and turned back toward the narrow infirmary bed.
Marcus lay utterly still beneath the pale glow of the moonstones set into the ceiling. Their faint silver light pulsed softly, meant to soothe wounded wolves and strengthen their connection to the Moon. But it did nothing for him.
He looked wrong.
Too pale. Too quiet.