Chapter 187: Blue 1
ÉTIENNE
Noise returned me to the world, abrupt and graceless. The elixir’s aftertaste clung to my tongue as consciousness surged, dragging me to the surface in a jolt. I sucked in air, fingers pressing to my cheek, my vision blurred by the ceiling’s pale haze. Only as my breathing steadied did the infirmary resolve itself—white sheets, the faint scent of antiseptic, dying sunlight painting a weak rectangle on the tiled floor—details sliding into place as if the room had to remember itself before welcoming me back.
The head healer’s voice found me, low and certain. "Welcome back, Alpha Theodore."
I turned toward the sound. Laurent and the healer waited at the edge of the cot, their posture betraying the relief of long anticipation. I caught the tension in their shoulders, the subtle slackening as they saw me breathing, alive and upright.
My gaze swept the room, searching for her.
"Where is Margaux?" My voice rasped, the syllables thick.
Laurent’s answer came with practiced calm. "She is around."
A pull along my side reminded me of the wound. The ache was a dull throb that felt improbable, given the condition I remembered. I braced my palms against the mattress and eased upright, the motion sending a ripple of discomfort through my ribs, but nothing sharp enough to stop me.
"She shouldn’t be alone right now." I forced my voice steady. "Séverine can teleport. Any moment, she could be here. If she’s angry enough—"
Laurent nodded. "I thought the same. Margaux disagreed. Prim’s spirit is with her, and Margaux seems convinced Séverine wants nothing to do with the spirit, given she was responsible for what happened to the poor Omega."
I frowned. "One spirit is not enough protection against a witch who’s lost her clarity."
He raised a hand, forestalling argument. "Margaux was certain about Prim’s abilities. We witnessed some of it ourselves. I believe she’ll be safe."
The head healer stepped forward and produced a small mirror, holding it toward me.
"What is that for?" I said.
"You should look, Alpha."
I took it.
The mirror caught the infirmary light, and for a moment I hesitated, uncertain if what I saw belonged to me. The reflection was a stranger. An unmarked stranger.
The left side of my face was now a smooth expanse where scar tissue had once mapped every year since the trafficking house. That familiar ridged memory, the injury I had claimed and preserved, had vanished without warning or negotiation. I tilted the glass, shifting it so the light revealed every angle, searching for the ghost of what had defined me for so long. Each new view confirmed the impossible: my face was now whole and untouched, as if history itself had been erased.
My breath made no sound. "How?" I managed, the word almost inaudible.
The head healer folded his hands behind his back, his expression as composed as ever.
"The mind is capable of inflicting wounds upon the body that no claw or blade could ever leave," he said. "Yours were a mix of both. Physical and psychological. For years, you believed those scars belonged to you. Your body accepted that belief as truth and refused to let them fade."
His gaze settled on me, calm and analytical rather than sentimental.
"What happened today broke that conviction. You did not simply survive the memory. You confronted it, accepted what truly happened, and let go of the guilt that had anchored it in place. Once the mind released its hold, the body was finally free to heal."
He paused, a faint note of professional satisfaction softening his otherwise impassive voice.
"It is an exceptionally rare phenomenon. Psychological injuries can become as enduring as physical ones, but on even rarer occasions, resolving the trauma itself allows the body to correct what should never have remained permanent. That is what we witnessed today."
I set the mirror down, its weight unfamiliar in my hand. The absence of the scar felt larger than its presence ever had. For years it had been my weapon, my warning, my shield. Now, nothing remained but unclaimed flesh and the hollow ache of something lost.
Was I truly healed?
Laurent’s voice broke the silence. "There is other news."
I turned, still caught between relief and disorientation.
His hands folded with habitual care. "Elder Gérard was found dead. Margaux had already told me before the sentinels found him that he was dead and that Prim’s spirit killed him. That means Séverine has lost whatever protection her grandfather provided, and she will know it."
"She will act," I said quietly. "When clarity leaves her, she chooses chaos. She will do something reckless." I steadied myself, forcing reason into my words. "Keep searching for a witch who can create some protections for this pack and us. I refuse to let some pit-born maniac chase me in my own domain."
Laurent nodded once. "We are doing everything possible."
I swung my legs off the cot and got up.
"Where exactly is she?" I asked.
"She mentioned the garden," Laurent said. "She said she wanted air."
"Okay."
I started moving.
Laurent’s voice, sharpened with urgency, cut through the hush behind me. "There is something else." I stilled, every muscle tight, and turned to face him.
He hesitated, choosing his words with the care of someone who understands the weight of bad news. "Beta Kayden. He surfaced at one of the trafficking sites we flagged months ago. Our hidden network picked up the alert the instant he appeared."
The name did not so much register as settle in the marrow of my bones, a chill that threaded through old scars. I stood rooted, the world narrowing until only the syllables of his name existed. Memory pressed in from all directions: the echo of his laughter, low and unhurried; the way his voice curled around threats disguised as pleasantries; the cold gleam of platinum chains against skin. My body remembered what my mind tried to forget, the details imprinted and unyielding no matter how many years I carved between then and now.
My breath came shallow, steadying on the edge of something sharp. I let the silence stretch, refusing to let Kayden’s shadow dictate my next move.
"Not tonight," I said at last, voice quiet but iron-bound.
Laurent’s surprise flickered across his face, a question forming before he swallowed it.
"Let him think tonight is mercy," I said. "Keep eyes on him. Do not lose the trail. But he waits."
I left before doubt could follow, pushing through the infirmary’s hush and the long corridors that smelled faintly of age. Outside, the air pressed cool against my skin, tinged with the faint promise of rain. The sky had settled into that hour between dusk and night, the moon lifting itself above the trees and turning the lawns a muted blue, as if reality itself had softened around the edges.
At the garden gate, I paused. Its hinges hung open, the path beyond trailing into a sea of forget-me-nots, their color deepening in the failing light.
Margaux knelt among the flowers, her figure bent in quiet concentration, one hand hovering just above the petals, searching for something only she could see.
"Margotine."
She turned, her profile sharp against the blue. When her eyes found mine, a smile broke across her face—unpracticed, immediate, as if some secret joy had outrun her caution. That smile caught me off guard, loosening something tight in my chest, and for a moment, words deserted me. I could only return it, whatever it was—both of us illuminated by the hush of the garden, the unspoken and the almost said.