The healer's chamber smelled of dried herbs and iron.
Not unpleasant.
Just honest.
Elara stood near the long wooden table at the center of the room, sleeves rolled back, palms resting flat against the cool surface. The stone walls were lined with jars—powders, roots, tinctures steeped in amber glass. A single oil lamp burned low, its flame steady despite the faint draft that slipped beneath the door.
Outside, inspection preparations were already tightening the estate into something quieter, sharper.
Inside, the room felt intimate.
Private.
The pack healer—an older woman with silver threaded through dark hair—watched Elara with an expression that was neither clinical nor comforting. It was assessing.
"You understand," the healer said softly, "this test is not ritual."
"I know."
"It is confirmation."
Elara nodded once.
The bond pulsed faintly in her chest. Alessandro waited outside the chamber at her request. She did not want him present for this.
