Stolen Mate

The forest was quiet the night I found him.

I'd been scavenging for moonroot near the northern border, where the pines grew thick and the pack rarely wandered. My hands were raw from scrubbing the feast hall floors, my back sore from sleeping on the storeroom's damp boards. But the moonroot's silvery leaves were worth the risk—they could ease the tremors in Mara's youngest, if she'd ever let me near him again.

That's when I heard the groan.

It was faint, choked, like an animal caught in a trap. My pulse quickened. Wolves didn't sound like that.

I followed the noise, heart hammering, until I saw him.

A man lay sprawled in the underbrush, one arm twisted beneath him, his dark shirt torn and glistening. Blood. So much blood. His face was pale under streaks of dirt, his black hair matted to his forehead. A rogue.

*Run*, my mind screamed. Rogues meant danger. If the pack found him—found *me* with him—they'd accuse me of betrayal. Again.

But his chest shuddered, a wet, shallow breath escaping his lips. He was dying.

I knelt, hands hovering. His wounds were brutal—claw marks raked across his ribs, a bite on his shoulder festering with infection. No wolf did this. Another rogue? A bear?

"Please," he rasped, eyes fluttering open. Amber, like burnt honey.

I froze. "You're awake."

"Not… for long." His voice cracked. "Leave me."

He smelled of iron and pine resin, but beneath it—something faint. Earth after rain. A scent I couldn't place, but it tugged at me, familiar and strange.

*No. You're scentless. You imagine things.*

I hesitated, then tore a strip from my cloak. "I'm a healer."

"Don't… waste time."

"Quiet."

He hissed as I pressed the cloth to his ribs, his muscles tensing. "Stubborn."

"So I'm told."

The moonroot would've helped, but I had none. Instead, I packed his wounds with yarrow and moss, my hands steady despite the ache in my chest. He watched me, his gaze sharp even in pain.

"Name," he grunted.

"Does it matter?"

"Rylan."

I glanced up. His jaw was set, defiant. A name meant trust. Or a trap.

"Elara."

He stiffened. "Silvermoon's healer."

"Not anymore."

His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

By the time I'd bandaged him, the moon hung high. He needed shelter, medicine, but the storeroom reeked of mildew and rats. The infirmary was forbidden.

"Can you walk?" I asked.

He laughed, a bitter sound. "Try me."

I slung his arm over my shoulders, his weight nearly buckling me. He smelled of sweat and agony, but that strange earthiness lingered, grounding me.

We stumbled through the trees, avoiding the village lights. The old watchtower stood crumbling at the forest's edge, its stones overgrown with ivy. I'd played here as a child. Now, it stank of rot and owl pellets.

"Homey," Rylan muttered, collapsing onto a pile of moldy hay.

"Don't complain." I rifled through my satchel—willow bark for fever, a scrap of honeycomb.

He grabbed my wrist. "Why help me?"

His grip was weak, but his eyes burned. *Because I'm a fool*, I thought. *Because no one else will*.

"You needed it," I said.

He studied me, as if peeling back layers. "You're… different."

My throat tightened. *Scentless. Cursed.* "Rest."

As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me. "Elara."

I paused.

"Thank you."

The words were rough, unused. I nodded, fleeing before the lump in my throat could choke me.

***

I returned at dawn with stolen supplies—a waterskin, dried meat, a vial of poppy milk. Rylan slept fitfully, his brow slick with sweat. The infection was worse.

I peeled back the bandages, my stomach turning. The claw marks were swollen, oozing yellow. Nightshade poison.

"Rylan." I shook him. "Who did this?"

His eyes fluttered open, glassy. "Pack… traitors."

"Which pack?"

He coughed, blood speckling his lips. "Doesn't… matter."

"It does if you want to live!"

He gripped my arm, sudden and fierce. "Don't… trust them."

"Who?"

But his eyes rolled back, his body seizing. I poured poppy milk down his throat, whispering prayers to a Goddess who'd stopped listening.

Hours passed. The fever broke near dusk.

He woke as I changed his bandages, his gaze clearer. "Still here?"

"Against my better judgment."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Liar."

I stiffened.

"You're curious," he said. "Why a rogue's in your woods. Why I smell like—"

"Like nothing," I snapped.

He raised a brow. "You can't smell it?"

"Smell what?"

He stared, then laughed—a real laugh, though it cost him. "Irony."

"What's that mean?"

But he closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

***

I returned each night, smuggling herbs and broth. He never thanked me again, but his jabs softened.

"Your hands," he said once, watching me grind comfrey. "They're steady."

"They have to be."

"Why?"

I hesitated. "People die otherwise."

"People die anyway."

The truth hung between us.

On the fifth night, he sat up unaided, his strength returning. "You ask a lot of questions, healer."

"You avoid a lot of answers."

He leaned back, amber eyes glinting. "Ask one."

"Who poisoned you?"

"Nightshade wolves. My old pack."

My blood chilled. Nightshade was ruthless, their Alpha unhinged. "Why?"

"I left."

"Why?"

He smirked. "That's two."

I threw a rag at him. He caught it, wincing.

"They betrayed me," he said quietly. "So I betrayed them back."

The words echoed my own heart. Betrayal. A cycle.

"Why stay here?" I asked. "Silvermoon's not safe for rogues."

He held my gaze. "Maybe I'm not here for Silvermoon."

The air thickened. My wolf stirred, a flicker I hadn't felt in weeks.

"Then why?"

He looked away. "Restless moon."

A non-answer. But as I stood to leave, he said, "You're different, Elara. Not just scentless. You're… quiet. But loud underneath."

I froze. "What does that mean?"

"Means I can hear you."

The words followed me into the dark, a riddle I couldn't solve.