The sound of the bolt sliding into the stone was a physical blow that knocked the breath from her lungs.
Posy stood with her palms pressed flat against the rough oak of the door, her forehead resting against the cold wood. Her chest was heaving, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Branen!" she screamed again, her voice cracking, her throat raw from the effort. "Let me out! You promised me! You swore by the moon!"
There was no answer.
Only the heavy, dragging footsteps of Garrow moving away from the door, and then the deep, silent cold of the corridor.
Posy let her hands slide down the wood, her knees giving way as she slumped onto the stone floor. Her body was trembling with a sudden, violent shock that had nothing to do with the freezing draft. It was the realization. It was the physical reality of her mother’s warning, realized in the very room where she had thought she had found a home.
“They will wrap you in silks, Posy. They will call you their Luna. But the moment you do not do what they want, the lock will click.”
He had lied to her.
The iron key resting against her chest—the duplicate of the one he had used to lock her in—was nothing but a beautiful, useless toy. He had given it to her to make her feel safe, to make her lower her guard, so she would feed his son and heal his pack. But the moment she had tried to make her own choice, the moment she had decided to risk her own life to save his people, he had lifted her like a beast of burden and locked her in the high room.
She was his healer. She was his battery. She was his prisoner.
The rage that rose in her chest was not a warm thing. It was a cold, sharp, and glittering ice that burned away the residual warmth of the mate-bond, leaving her heart feeling as hard and hollow as her mother’s brass locket.
"I will not let them die," she whispered to the empty room.
She stood up, her hand going to the linen sling on her chest.
The baby was still sleeping in his cedar crib near the fire, his tiny face relaxed, completely unaware of the storm that had just shattered his father's house. Posy walked to the crib, her fingers gently stroking his dark-haired cheek.
"I have to go, little wolf," she whispered, her voice trembling but steady. "I have to save them. Even if your father hates me for it."
She walked to the small wooden table in the corner where her leather medicine bag lay. She did not take the herbs; she did not need them. She reached beneath her apron, her fingers finding the iron key Branen had given her.
She held it up, letting the weak, grey light from the window catch the delicate, swirling runes.
It was the key to the western gate—the small, private postern door that led out of the castle walls, bypassing the main courtyard. But the lock on the nursery door was different. It was a royal lock, carved from the same ancient stone as the Keep itself, and it could only be opened from the outside.
Or by magic.
Posy closed her eyes.
She did not reach into her chest for the tiny spark of her green-blood. She reached down, deep into the earth-warmed core of her being, and pulled on that massive, roaring river of power she had felt in the Great Hall.
The mountain answered.
A soft, golden-green light began to hum in the center of her palms, a gentle, quiet heat that felt like the sun shining through a young birch leaf in the spring.
She pressed her palms against the heavy iron lock of the door.
The metal began to hum, the iron turning a deep, cherry-red under the influence of her magic. She felt the internal pins of the lock shifting, the heavy iron bolt sliding back into the stone with a soft, metallic click.
The door swung open.
Posy did not run. She walked out of the nursery, her steps slow and deliberate, her head held high as she descended the spiral stairs.
The Keep was eerily quiet.
As she reached the lower cellars, she saw Garrow sitting on a wooden bench near the well-room door, his old face buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking with a silent, helpless grief. When he heard the click of her boots on the stone, he looked up, his yellow eyes widening in absolute, silent shock.
"Posy..." he whispered, his voice shaking. "How... how did you get out?"
"Get out of my way, Garrow," Posy said, her voice dropping to a low, cold hiss that made the old steward flinch. "I am going to purge the well."
"The Alpha—"
"The Alpha is a coward who would rather let his pack die than trust my strength," Posy said, stepping past him into the well-room.
The black, oily water of the basin was still there, the heavy grey mist of the frost-bane rising from the surface, carrying that sharp, sweet scent of bitter almonds. The black ice had almost completely covered the pool, a dark, jagged rind of frost that looked like solid iron.
Posy did not hesitate.
She walked straight to the edge of the pool, dropping to her knees on the cold granite floor. She reached out, her hands hovering just inches above the black ice.
She closed her eyes.
She did not search for the spark. She surrendered her awareness completely, sending her consciousness downward through five feet of solid stone underfoot, past the Keep's foundations, and deep into the ancient bones of the mountain.
The mountain answered.
A massive, hot current of life-force surged through her hands like a river of golden-green light. It was a bright, emerald fire that erupted from her palms, sinking straight through the black ice and into the dark, poisoned water of the basin.
The physical sensation was an agony that made her jaw lock, a high, piercing whine escaping her lips.
It felt as though she were inhaling broken glass, the freezing, toxic energy of the frost-bane pulling at her own veins, trying to drag her life-force down into the dark. Her skin began to turn a terrifying, translucent blue, her fingers stiffening, her joints locking with a sharp, throbbing fatigue that made her whole body shake.
But she did not pull away.
"Live," she whispered, her teeth clenched, her eyes entirely green now, burning with the ancient, untamed power of the earth. "Live."
The well-room smelled of wild chamomile.
The scent was of wet springtime birch leaves, sun-heated soil, and the rich, sweet aroma of the woodland floor following a summer shower. The green light hummed beneath the water, a soft, vibrant glow that lit up the dark chamber with the color of young pine.
The black ice began to melt, the dark, oily grease of the poison turning to a clear, sparkling white as the green fire purged the toxic fluid from the pool. The quartz stones at the bottom of the basin appeared once more, their clean, white surfaces shining in the emerald light.
Behind her, the door of the well-room was thrown open with a violent crash.
Branen stood in the doorway, his face completely pale, his grey eyes wide with an absolute, silent devastation. He had heard her voice in his mind, he had felt the sudden, massive drain of her life-force through the pack-bond, and he had run through the castle like a man possessed.
"Posy!" he whispered, his voice a rough, bleeding scrape.
He rushed toward her, his massive hands reaching out to pull her away from the pool.
But it was too late.
With a final, explosive surge of her power, the green light faded back into her skin, the wellspring completely purified, its clear, clean water reflecting the light of the iron brazier on the wall.
Posy’s hands slipped from the stone edge of the basin, her body collapsing onto the cold granite floor like a piece of dry paper.
Branen caught her before she could hit the stone, his massive arms wrapping around her limp frame, his chest rising and falling in deep, rapid gasps as he held her close against his chest.
"Posy..." he whispered, his voice a dry, rattling hiss. "My... mate... please..."
Posy slowly opened her eyes.
The emerald fire was gone, replaced by the dark, flat brown of her iris. Her face was completely white, her skin cold, her breathing nothing more than a series of short, shallow gasps. She looked up at his face, and then down at his hand on her waist.
The mate-bond was still there, but it was cold, the golden-red threads thin and brittle, completely shut out by the wall she had built in her mind.
She did not slap his hand away. She did not have the strength.
She simply looked at him with dead, hollow, and betrayed eyes that made his silent wolf let out a phantom howl of pure, primitive grief.
"You locked the gate, Branen," she whispered, her voice a tiny, cold scrape of sound that carried the absolute, unyielding truth of her soul. "You are just like the rest."
She closed her eyes, turning her head away from his chest, leaving him alone in the dark well-room with his purified water and his ruined mate.
* * *