"Alaric, she's still your bonded mate. Before you claimed her, she was a treasured daughter of the Nightveil line, a rare-blooded omega pampered from birth. Don't you think this penance is a bit... cruel?"
"Last time I caught Lyra's scent, it was wrong. Weak. Fading. She looked gaunt. Hollow. Her wolf is probably at its breaking point."
Alaric's voice was flat, utterly indifferent.
"We agreed on three full years of penance. Not a day less."
"Besides, there's only one moon cycle left. She's survived this far—what's a few more days?"
Garrick hesitated, then spoke again.
"She came to me a while back. Begging. She only wanted to borrow a few hundred coins."
"The Lyra Nightveil I used to know—the golden omega, born into the highest bloodline—I've never seen her that desperate. Her submission posture... it wasn't an act."
Alaric let out a cold snort. "You didn't give it to her, did you?"
"Of course not. You issued the Alpha command—any wolf who helps her faces pack shunning. I wouldn't dare defy you."
Through the haze of pipe smoke, Alaric's lips curled into a frigid smile.
"Smart wolf."