The healer's office smells like sage and lies. "Three days." Dr. Moreau won't meet my eyes. "Maybe four if you're lucky, Isla. The wolfsbane poisoning has spread too far. Without the Luna's Renewal ritual—" "I know." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I know what happens." What happens is I die. Slowly. Painfully. My wolf retreating first, then my organs shutting down one by one until there's nothing left but a hollow shell that used to be me. The black veins are already creeping up my neck. I've been hiding them under scarves for two weeks now, buying time with suppressants that make my hands shake and my vision blur. But you can't hide death forever. "The ritual slot opens tonight," Dr. Moreau says carefully. "If Alpha Garrett approves your case—" "He won't." She flinches. We both know why. The Luna's Renewal happens once every three months. One person. One chance. And this month's slot has already been promised to someone else. My phone buzzes. Garrett's name flashes across the screen. *Council meeting. Now.* Of course. He couldn't even tell me himself. --- The pack house is exactly as I left it this morning—gleaming hardwood floors I refinished myself, custom furniture I built in my workshop, the intricate ironwork chandelier I designed as a mating gift three years ago. Every corner of this place has my fingerprints on it. I wonder if they'll notice when I'm gone. The council chamber doors are already open. Garrett sits at the head of the table, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on some point past my shoulder. He's wearing the watch I made him. The irony tastes like copper. My sister—adopted sister, though no one bothers with that distinction anymore—sits beside him. Lyra's hand rests on his arm. Possessive. Comfortable. She's glowing. Perfect skin, bright eyes, that effortless beauty that always made people gravitate toward her while I faded into the background. "Isla." Garrett's voice is careful. Distant. Like I'm a stranger and not the woman who shares his mate bond. "Thank you for coming." I don't sit. The black veins pulse under my collar. "Just say it." "The council has reviewed both cases." Elder Thomas clears his throat. "Given the circumstances, we believe the ritual slot should go to Lyra." There it is. "She's been poisoned too?" I ask flatly. "No." Garrett finally looks at me. "But she's the pack's head strategist. Her work with the northern alliances has prevented two wars in the last year. If we lose her connections, her expertise—" "You'll lose political leverage." I finish. "And if you lose me, you'll just lose the girl who fixes your buildings and makes your furniture." "That's not fair," Lyra says softly. Always softly. "Isla, you know how much we value your contributions. But this is about the greater good. The pack needs—" "I know what the pack needs." The suppressants are wearing off. My hands shake. "It's fine. Give her the slot." Silence. Garrett stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Just like that?" "Just like that." What else am I supposed to do? Beg? Scream? Tell them I'm already dying, that the black veins have reached my collarbone, that I wake up every morning tasting blood? They've made their choice. They chose her. They always choose her. "There's more." Elder Thomas slides a folder across the table. "Given your... health situation, we think it's best if you transition your workshop operations to the pack. And custody of Mira should go to Garrett and Lyra. She needs stability." My daughter. They want my daughter. "Mira is five years old." My voice cracks. "She's my—" "She's pack," Garrett interrupts. "And you're in no condition to care for her. Lyra has already agreed to take her in. It's the responsible choice." Responsible. That word again. I've been responsible my entire life. Responsible when my parents died and I raised Lyra myself. Responsible when I gave up my dream of becoming a master craftsman to run the pack's maintenance operations. Responsible when I mated Garrett even though I knew he loved her first. Responsible. Reasonable. Replaceable. "Fine." I pull the folder toward me. "What do I sign?" --- It takes forty-five minutes to sign away my entire life. The workshop and all its contents. My designs. My tools. The custom pieces I've spent years perfecting. Custody of Mira goes to Garrett with Lyra as primary caregiver. And the mate bond dissolution—that one requires both signatures. Garrett's hand shakes slightly as he signs his name next to mine. "This is for the best," he says quietly. "You'll be free. You can... find peace." Peace. He means death. He just doesn't have the spine to say it. Lyra hugs me as I leave. "Thank you for understanding. You're being so strong about this. So mature." I let her hug me. Let her feel good about herself. No one asks why I'm wearing a scarf in August. No one notices the way I lean against the doorframe, or how my breath comes short and shallow. No one sees me at all. I walk out of the pack house with nothing but the clothes on my back and a bottle of suppressants that might buy me another day. Behind me, I hear Lyra laugh at something Garrett says. They sound relieved. ---