A Substitute

POV: Sera

The sound of hurried, chaotic footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway, accompanied by the dull thud of a heavy medical bag striking leather.

"The Alpha had better be on his deathbed, or I swear I'm filing a formal complaint with the Pack Council." Elena stormed into the study, her tone laced with irritation. She was the pack's only healer, and she made no effort to soften her displeasure. "I've got wounded soldiers on the front lines waiting for sutures, and you people have a Luna who happens to be the most skilled herbalist in the entire territory. What internal injury could possibly require dragging me out of a pool of blood—"

Her voice cut off abruptly the moment she registered what lay before her.

In the awkward silence that followed, the seasoned healer finally caught the sickly sweet scent saturating the air. She wrinkled her nose and strode briskly to the sofa, leaning down to sniff at the residue.

"This is absurd." Elena pinched the bridge of her nose in disgust. "What kind of shoddy black magic is this? The extraction of the aphrodisiac herb is so crude it looks like an apprentice's work. They didn't even add the right binding agent—the scent is so discordant it's nauseating. Anyone who inhales this mess is bound to lose control."

Her words struck like an invisible slap, yet no one in the room dared to respond. Elena was a healer concerned only with saving lives; she hadn't realized that her assessment had just proven my innocence. Any tincture I prepared would never contain such elementary mistakes.

Lydia's face drained of color instantly, and she shrank instinctively into the shadows. I clung to the doorframe, looking toward Damien with one last thread of hope.

Do you hear that, Damien? It wasn't me.

But in the eyes of an Alpha consumed by rage and prejudice, the truth was often the most weightless thing of all.

"Enough, Elena." Damien's hoarse voice cut through the tension. "I don't care who brewed this garbage. Just heal me."

The guards exchanged uncertain glances before reading the oppressive atmosphere and retreating swiftly from the study, closing the door behind them.

I steadied myself against the cold wall and slowly straightened, preparing to drag my numb legs out of this suffocating place. But Elena's chatter continued to seep through the crack in the door.

"Damien, your energy is a complete disaster. What on earth happened to you at the border? I've told you before—you need evening primrose at Sera's level of purity, not—"

"Clean up the residue on the carpet." Damien's voice was raw and volatile, brooking no argument. "From now on, I will never touch a single drop of anything she makes. Do you understand me?"

He never believed me.

There is no greater sorrow than a heart that has died, and mine had long since been worn into a thick callus over the years of living as a replacement.

"Luna." I turned toward the voice. A limping figure stood in the shadows of the hallway. It was Elder Silas.

He seemed to have been waiting for me for quite some time. "I believe you didn't do it. You had no need to."

Elder Silas was the only member of the Pack Council who looked at me with any measure of respect. Perhaps it was because of his own lame left leg—we were kindred spirits in misfortune.

He extended a pair of gloves scented with sandalwood. "Your hands are more valuable than any wolf's claws. I thought these might spare you a little of the silver's harm, though not much."

I accepted his kindness with gratitude. It was one of the few traces of warmth I had ever felt here. I dragged my weary body back to the herb room behind the kitchen—the only refuge I had in the main manor.

What greeted me was not the familiar scent of medicinal plants, but utter devastation.

My sanctuary had been thoroughly destroyed.

Several clay jars had been maliciously shattered against the stone floor, precious gentian and dittany roots trampled into muddy water, and several extremely rare analgesic herbs had vanished entirely.

I didn't need to guess who was responsible. Lydia's retaliation was always like this—childish, yet unerringly aimed at what I held dear.

I retrieved a broom without expression and began mechanically sweeping up the debris. The gash across my palm continued to seep blood with every movement, but I seemed to have stopped feeling the pain.

"Caw—"

Ash squeezed through the ventilation window and landed on the counter beside me. He tilted his head, his obsidian eyes reflecting a trace of guilt, and limped over to nudge my uninjured hand with his soft head.

"It's all right, Ash. This isn't your fault." I murmured soothingly and tossed the last few surviving herbs into the cauldron.

The warriors returning from the front lines were gravely wounded and needed vast quantities of healing salves. I measured out yarrow, elderberry, and a few drops of white willow bark extract, adding them to the boiling water in careful proportion.

Work was the only thing that could pull me out of despair.

I stared at the flickering orange flames beneath the pot, but my thoughts drifted uncontrollably back to the beginning—to the reason I was sitting in this humiliating position in the first place.

Why had I ever agreed to occupy this seat of torment?

I knew the answer better than anyone.

Because from the very first day I set foot in Bloodmoon territory, I understood that I was nothing more than a substitute.

This was the Whitmore family's greatest secret. Years ago, my twin sister Seraphina—who had awakened as a White Wolf—was abducted by the Alpha of our mortal enemies, the Ironridge pack.

Bloodmoon and Ironridge had been locked in a blood feud spanning a hundred years, and countless warriors' lives had stained the border red.

If the common wolves ever learned that a noblewoman of our pack had become the mate of an enemy Alpha—whether willingly or not—the enraged pack would brand the Whitmore family as traitors and tear us to pieces.

So my father, Elder Whitmore, concealed the truth. He announced publicly that Seraphina had perished tragically in the conflict. Only the innermost circle of elders and Damien himself knew that the woman Damien regarded as his lifelong beloved was now seated comfortably on the Luna throne of his greatest enemy.

And my father, desperate to salvage the Whitmore family's crumbling standing in Bloodmoon, hastily shoved me into Damien's arms like hush money.

I had the same face as Seraphina, bore nearly the same scent.

The only difference was that she was a radiant White Wolf, and I was a defective product who couldn't even summon her wolf.

"Knock, knock."

A timid knocking interrupted my reverie.

I turned to see a young beta standing in the doorway. He looked uncomfortable, his gaze unable to meet mine.

"Luna..." The beta's tone was awkward and apologetic. "Miss Lydia says she was frightened tonight and cannot sleep. She... she requests that you prepare a calming potion for her."

The beta shuffled his feet awkwardly. He clearly found the demand excessive. To ask a Luna to brew medicine like a servant for an ordinary pack member in the dead of night was humiliating in itself.

I felt a sudden urge to laugh. It seemed Damien's gag order was remarkably effective.

He didn't want scandal in his territory, didn't want to lose face, but the order hadn't restrained Lydia—it had only nailed me more firmly to the pillar of shame.

I couldn't defend myself, couldn't prove to anyone that the crude black magic potion hadn't come from my hands.

"I understand." I met the beta's eyes calmly, my voice flat. "Tell her the medicine will be ready soon."

The beta exhaled in visible relief, bowed briefly, and left in haste.

The kitchen fell silent once more, save for the bubbling of the cauldron.

I lowered my gaze to my own torn and bloodied hands.

If... if I could awaken the wolf inside me.

Then what happened in the Great Hall today would never have occurred. My hands wouldn't be injured. I could have bitten clean through Lydia's claws the moment she dared to reach for me.

And I wouldn't have needed to spend day after day learning this tedious herbal craft just to scrape together some meager sense of worth in this pack—only to have the very skill I took pride in used to humiliate me today.

Three cauldrons sat before me.

In the leftmost one, I had just added crushed calming herb. That was for Lydia.

The wound on my palm still throbbed faintly, blood welling at my fingertip and hovering above the boiling liquid.

Suddenly, a cold voice whispered from somewhere deep within me：If you let a single drop of blood fall into that pot... wouldn't so many things finally come to an end?