Lyra’s POV
Lothian reached over and picked up the Marrowvine root, holding it between his fingers.
“Watch the texture.
It must be ground evenly.
Uneven pieces will cause instability in the potion,” he explained.
She leaned in, watching him closely.
“Like this?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Yes.
That is perfect.
Keep that consistency, and the rest will follow naturally,” he answered.
Her wolf stirred slightly in her chest, aware of the tension in the room and the urgency of their task.
Lyra focused on the work, listening to the faint sound of grinding herbs and the soft scratch of Lothian’s pen on the notes he kept beside him.
“Do we need the Icebark powder as well?” she asked, unsure if she had remembered all the ingredients correctly.
“Yes,” he said.
“It will cool the mixture and stop the potion from overheating while it brews.
Too hot, and it will lose its power.”
She carefully added the Icebark powder, mixing it slowly into the root and Ashvine combination.
“I hope he never finds out how close he came to… dying,” she muttered under her breath.
Lothian’s eyes flicked up at her, catching the worry in her tone.
“He may not know now, but he will survive because of you.
That is what matters,” he said.
Her fingers paused in the grinding motion.
“I just… I do not understand why anyone would want to hurt him,” she whispered.
Maybe she did understand, but because he was her mate, her thinking was clouded.
She would have understood if she was back in her pack, but after talking with him, her heart had warmed toward him.
Lothian shook his head slowly.
“There are always those who seek power.
Those who would break apart a pack for their own gain.
It is not uncommon, though it does not make it any less dangerous,” he explained.
Her jaw tightened.
“I just… I do not want him to get hurt.
Not because of politics or power.
I cannot bear to see him in pain,” she whispered.
Lothian looked at her carefully, his gaze softening, as if he knew something and was not telling her.
He must have seen the desperation in her eyes, because he nodded and sighed.
“And yet here you are, working with me to make sure he survives.
That is bravery, Lyra.
Not the kind that shouts or strikes, but the kind that acts quietly when it matters most,” he noted.
She felt heat rise to her cheeks again, both from his words and from the awareness of how much she cared for him, for reasons she could not fully explain.
“I will not fail,” she said firmly, grinding the herbs a little faster.
He nodded, reaching for the mortar and pestle to help her mix in the Marrowvine evenly.
“Good.
Remember to fold it gently.
Rushing will break the mixture,” he reminded her.
She worked beside him, hands careful.
Every pinch of herb felt like a responsibility she could not drop.
The room was silent, but her mind was alive with pictures of him, of his health and his safety, of what would happen if they failed.
Finally, she lifted the mixture to inspect it.
“I think it is ready for the next step,” she mumbled.
Lothian studied it, then nodded approvingly.
“Yes.
Now the Bloodpetal extract.
Slowly.
Watch how it absorbs,” he told her.
She added it drop by drop, watching the colors change, feeling the texture shift.
Her pulse raced, and yet she felt a strange calm, a sense of purpose settling in her chest.
“You are precise,” Lothian said quietly.
“I do not need to watch over every motion.
That is why this will work.”
She swallowed, her hands trembling slightly.
“I… I just want to do it right.
I cannot… I cannot let him suffer any more than he already has,” she said softly.
Lothian placed a hand briefly on her shoulder, a light but steady weight.
“And you will not,” he said.
“Can I ask you a question, Lyra?”
She blinked at him, startled, unsure what he might want.
“Yes?” she said carefully, her voice quiet.
Lothian watched her carefully, his expression patient.
Then he asked quietly, “Is Alpha Ronan your mate?”
Her chest froze.
Her stomach dropped.
No.
How did he know?
She had not said a word to anyone.
There had been no signs, no whispers, nothing that should have given her away.
Ronan himself did not know.
He could not scent her, could not feel the bond.
So how had Lothian…
She stayed silent, eyes fixed on the table, unwilling to meet his gaze.
She could not tell him yes, not yet.
She did not know if she could fully trust him with that information.
Once, trusting had ended with her being sent to Blackthorn as a tribute.
She had learned the cost of speaking too freely.
Lothian’s sigh was soft, carrying more understanding than she expected.
“I understand why you would not want to tell,” he said gently.
“He is Alpha Ronan.
His wolf is cursed to never scent his mate.
I will not say anything to anyone.
But know this… I am here if you need me,” he added.
Her pulse quickened at his words, a small warmth creeping into her chest.
Someone she could trust, even in a pack where trust was dangerous.
Her lips parted slightly, but she did not answer.
Words felt heavy, risky, hard to form.
She swallowed, feeling a mix of relief and caution.
He did not pry.
He did not demand.
Yet there was a weight behind his gesture, a silent promise that she was not completely alone.
She looked at him then, for the first time meeting his full gaze, and felt a strange pull of trust.
She had expected suspicion, judgement, questions about her loyalty, but instead she found calm.
Steady assurance.
“Will you…” she hesitated, unsure if she could ask such a thing, “will you tell anyone about it?” she asked.
His gaze was firm, unwavering.
“No,” he said simply.
“Not a word.
Your secrets are protected here, as much as anyone else’s.”
Her chest loosened, and she exhaled, a small, almost silent sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Lothian.
I… I could not have done this alone,” she said softly.
Lothian smiled faintly, not teasing, not mocking.
“Do not thank me yet.
You still have work to do.
We still have the potion to finish,” he replied.
Her hands went back to the herbs, grounding herself.
“Yes,” she said firmly.
“We should finish it.”
Lothian gave a small nod.
“We will finish the batch, and then it will be given to him.
He will be fine.
You have done well, Lyra,” he said.
Her wolf stirred at his calm confidence, at the reassurance he offered without needing to explain everything.
For a moment, she let herself believe that he was right, that this plan would succeed, and that she could protect Ronan, even if he did not yet know how much she cared.
The door swung open suddenly.
A guard stepped in, urgency written across his face.
“Alpha has called for a council meeting,” he said quickly.
“It is immediate.
He requests your presence as well.”
Lothian frowned, confusion flickering across his features.
“A council meeting now?
It is late, far too late for anyone to gather properly,” he said.
The guard shrugged.
“I only do what I’m told, Lothian.
Ash said it is urgent.
That is all the information I have,” he replied.
Lyra froze.
She could not imagine why the Alpha would call a meeting at this hour.
What could possibly be so urgent that it could not wait until morning?
He had been fine when she left him a few hours ago.
Lothian turned toward her.
“Come with me.
You need to be there,” he told her.
She shook her head, looking at him in shock.
“I cannot.
I am… I am not supposed to be there, Lothian.
I’m a tribute, remember?
And I am busy here.
I should finish preparing the potion,” she protested.
He rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed.
“You are my apprentice for now, and, in case you have forgotten, you are also the head cook.
That alone makes you a council member, whether you like it or not.
You are going,” he insisted.
Her stomach sank.
Being around Ronan, attending a council meeting was… it felt wrong.
She was not sure why, but her pulse quickened at the thought.
Did being the head cook make her a member of the Blackthorn Pack council?