Seraphina Silvermoon POV:

Alaric Stonefang’s burning gaze was fixed on me. I instinctively took a step back, right into the solid wall of Dravon’s chest as he moved to stand behind me.

The Stonefang Alpha barely glanced at Dravon, dismissing his suppressed aura as insignificant. His focus was entirely on me.

"Alpha Stonefang, what is the meaning of this?" my grandfather finally managed to ask, his voice shaky.

Alaric let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. He looked at the members of my pack as if they were the stupidest creatures he had ever seen. "That was a Blood Moonflower! One single petal can help a warrior break through a plateau, can add ten years to an elder's life! And you," he roared, pointing a trembling finger at the trough, "you fed it to your livestock!"

A collective gasp went through the crowd. *Blood Moonflower.* The name was from legends, from children's stories. I saw my grandmother Moira sway on her feet, her face ashen.

Elara’s face was no longer pale; it was the color of death. The priceless, mythical treasure she had thrown away in a fit of pique... it was real.

"I've been tracking a surge of power for days," Alaric continued, his voice filled with a mix of fury and awe. "I was hoping to find the powerful stranger who brought it into these lands. They say only the Shadow Lord of the Moonstone Vale has the right to possess such a thing." He scanned the crowd again, then shook his head in disappointment. "Clearly, the great one was merely passing through and dropped his prize, and you fools stumbled upon it."

No one, not a single person, made the connection between the mythical "Shadow Lord" and the quiet, unassuming rogue standing behind me. The pack’s conclusion was immediate and unanimous: Dravon had gotten lucky. He’d found a priceless treasure in the woods like a simpleton finding a gold nugget.

And I had eaten it.

The way they looked at me changed. The pity and scorn were gone, replaced by something far uglier. Naked, ravenous greed.

Grandmother Moira was the first to speak, her voice sharp and commanding. "Seraphina! You will surrender that flower! It is pack property!"

"That's right!" Elara chimed in, her voice shrill with desperation. "We need to get it out of her! Use a purging tonic, now! We can't let its power be wasted on a cripple!"

A low growl rumbled through the crowd as several warriors started to close in, their eyes fixed on me like I was a piece of meat.

Dravon stepped in front of me. He didn't raise his voice, he didn't shift. He just stood there, and an invisible wall of pressure slammed into the advancing wolves, stopping them dead in their tracks.

"She is my mate," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "Touch her, and you die."

His aura was still faint, but the sheer, raw menace in his voice made the air crackle.

Alaric watched the scene with detached interest. He didn't care about our pack's internal squabbles. He just wanted more flowers. "Boy," he said to Dravon. "I don't care about your mating games. Have her tell me where she found the flower. I will give you riches beyond your wildest dreams."

Dravon didn't even honor him with a look. His eyes were on me. "Let's go."

He placed a hand on the small of my back and guided me away. We walked through a sea of hateful, greedy, and envious glares, but no one dared to make a move.

Back in the suffocating confines of our tiny shack, I was still shaking. "It... it was a sacred artifact?" I whispered, looking down at my hands, then at my leg. The tingling sensation was stronger now, a constant, pleasant hum.

Dravon closed the flimsy door, shutting out the prying eyes. "It was," he confirmed, his voice calm. "And now, it is a part of you. No one can take it away."

I looked at him, truly looked at him, for the first time. Gratitude, fear, and a burning curiosity warred within me. Who was this man?

Seraphina Silvermoon POV:

In the days that followed, we were prisoners in our own home. Warriors were posted outside our shack day and night. The pack was waiting, watching. Alaric Stonefang was still visiting, so they couldn't act openly, but their greed was a palpable thing, hanging in the air like a foul stench.

The quarterly pack council was convened to assign duties and positions. It was a chance for warriors to prove their worth. With a nervous flutter in my stomach, and with Dravon's quiet encouragement, I decided to do something I'd only ever dreamed of.

I walked into the great hall of the Packhouse, my limp feeling more pronounced than ever under the dozens of hostile stares. I made my way to the center of the room.

"I am Seraphina Silvermoon," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "I wish to apply for the position of Assistant Tactical Strategist."

Silence. Then, an explosion of derisive laughter.

"A cripple wants to command warriors?" one of the elders scoffed from his seat. "That's the best joke I've heard all year."

Elara, standing beside her father, the pack's Gamma, smirked. "Seraphina, perhaps the kitchens or the laundry would be a better fit for your... abilities."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I held my ground. I held up a roll of parchments I had spent years preparing. "These are my proposed revisions to our patrol routes and defensive formations. They could increase our border security by twenty percent. I ask only that the council review them."

A hulking warrior snatched the scrolls from my hand and tossed them to the floor without a glance. "Don't waste our time. Get out."

Grandmother Moira, presiding over the council, delivered the final blow, her voice cold and devoid of any emotion. "Seraphina Silvermoon. Your application is denied. Reason: physical disability renders you unfit for duty."

The words were a dagger to my heart. It didn't matter how smart I was, how hard I worked. All they would ever see was my leg.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I turned to leave, to retreat back into the shadows where I belonged.

That's when the doors to the hall swung open. Dravon stepped inside.

He walked to the center of the room, the temperature seeming to drop with every step he took. The laughter died in everyone's throats. He bent down and picked up my scrolls from the dusty floor, carefully brushing them off.

He lifted his head, his dark eyes sweeping over the council. "You rejected her because of her leg?" His voice was quiet, but it carried an unnerving weight.

"That's right," Moira answered, her voice strained. "A wolf who cannot run cannot lead a fight."

Dravon's gaze found mine, and in their depths, I saw a fierce, protective fire I had never seen before. "And what if her leg could be healed?"

The hall erupted in murmurs of disbelief. My leg was a birth defect. Our pack healer, Calyx Thorne, had declared it hopeless years ago.

"Impossible!" Elara shrieked. "You're a liar! Who do you think you are, the Moon Goddess herself?"

Dravon ignored her. He walked to me and did something that shocked the entire room. He knelt before me, on one knee, so that we were at eye level. A male, kneeling to his mate. It was unheard of.

"I, Dravon," he said, his voice a solemn vow meant for me alone, yet heard by all. "I promise you, my mate, Seraphina. I will heal your leg. And I will make every person who ever mocked you for it choke on their words."

His conviction was absolute. I found myself nodding, a wild, impossible hope blooming in my chest.

He stood and faced the stunned council again. "Three days," he announced. "In three days, she will stand before you as whole as any of you. And then, you will give her the fair chance she deserves."

Seraphina Silvermoon POV:

Back in the oppressive silence of our shack, the bravado of the council hall evaporated, leaving me trembling with a mixture of hope and terror.

"Is it true?" I whispered, my voice barely audible. "What you said... can you really do it?"

Dravon nodded and gestured for me to sit on the edge of the bed. He crouched before me, his presence filling the small space. He didn't touch my leg. Instead, he held his hand a few inches above it. A faint, silvery light, almost invisible in the dim room, flowed from his fingertips, enveloping my calf.

It didn't hurt. A cool, soothing sensation washed over my skin, calming the frantic beating of my heart.

Outside, a floorboard creaked. Elara. She couldn't stand not knowing what was happening, her jealousy a poison she had to spread.

Dravon’s brow furrowed in concentration. The silvery light intensified for a moment, and his expression grew grim.

"This is not a birth defect," he said, his voice low and serious as he pulled his hand back. "It's not an injury. You're cursed."

The word hung in the air between us. "Cursed?" I breathed, my hand flying to my mouth. All my life, I'd been told I was just... broken.

"A rare and vicious form of dark magic," he explained, his eyes dark with a knowledge that seemed ancient. "The Silver-Witch's Erosion. It uses microscopic particles of silver energy to constantly negate your wolf's natural healing abilities. It keeps your leg in a perpetual state of injury, making any normal treatment useless."

His words clicked into place. The strange, deep ache I always felt on the full moon, the one our healer dismissed as phantom pains.

"The caster was cruel," Dravon continued. "The curse was designed not only to cripple you, but to slowly weaken your entire bloodline over time."

A loud, scornful laugh came from the doorway. Elara kicked the door open and stood there, her arms crossed.

"A curse? Seriously?" she sneered. "Is that the best you can come up with? You have to invent some fantasy about witches and dark magic just to make your ridiculous three-day promise sound believable?"

She turned her venomous gaze on me. "Oh, cousin. You really are pathetic. First, you bind yourself to this nobody, and now you're letting him fill your head with this nonsense."

Her words were like a bucket of ice water, dousing the fragile flame of hope he had just lit. Doubt crept in, cold and familiar.

Dravon rose to his feet, placing himself between me and Elara. "Believe what you want," he said, his voice flat and cold. "In three days, the truth will be undeniable."

"Oh, I'm counting on it," Elara shot back. "I can't wait to see what kind of magic trick you perform to fix something that's been broken since birth. Don't think I don't see your game," she added, her voice dripping with contempt. "You're just trying to buy time, to make us pity her so we forget she swallowed a fortune that belongs to the pack. It won't work."

Her "analysis" seemed to make perfect sense to the other Omegas who had gathered at our door to watch the spectacle. They nodded in agreement. Dravon was a con artist.

Amidst the sea of judging eyes, Dravon looked only at me. "Ignore them," he said softly. "Trust me."

I looked into his eyes, searching for any hint of deception. I found none. Only a deep, steady calm. I had lived a lifetime with no hope. He was offering me three days of it.

I took a shaky breath and nodded.

Elara scoffed at my choice, her face twisting in disgust. "Fools," she muttered, turning on her heel. "A matched pair of fools."