Though by next moon-cycle, our positions would be reversed.
I carried the two small moonroot stalks back to my workstation in the Tracker Den.
Rowan Ashclaw, one of my junior scouts, spotted them immediately. His eyes went wide as he approached. "Den-Leader, aren't those the same moonroots you gifted away last moon-cycle?"
He was right. Last month, Aurora's mother Isolde Frostveil had fallen ill—her life-force weakened—and she'd been taken to the healers' sanctuary.
I had personally driven my runner-cart deep into the wild territories, tracking down a mountain herbalist to procure these very stalks.
After considerable haggling, I'd secured both for five hundred marks each.
And now Aurora had returned these same moonroots to me as my seasonal tribute-share, claiming each was worth five thousand marks.
I wanted to laugh. Yet somehow, the laughter wouldn't come.
All these years I'd served the pack with unwavering dedication, never complaining, never asking for recognition. Partly because I needed the ration allotments. But also because I'd believed Aurora and I were true pack-sisters, bound by something deeper than hierarchy.