Chapter 37: Shadows of Survival

The office fell into a stunned silence as the black blood glistened on the stone floor, a stark omen of Orion’s dire condition. Lysander’s pale face, drained of color, loomed over the alpha’s limp form, his hands still gripping Orion’s shoulders. "It’s the purging," he said, his voice tight with urgency, the words cutting through the tension like a blade. "We need to get him to the medical facility, now!" His eyes, sharp and unyielding, bore into Ronan with a command that brooked no argument.

Ronan wasted no time, he moved to Orion’s legs, his broad hands securing the alpha’s armored boots, while Lysander hoisted his shoulders. Together, they lifted Orion’s heavy frame as they maneuvered toward the door.

Sophia stood frozen for a heartbeat, her mind reeling from the sight of the black veins and blood, but instinct propelled her into action.

She snatched Orion’s massive sword and armor from the floor, the weight nearly doubling her own as she slung them over her shoulder. The steel bit into her skin, but a determined glint sparked in her dark eyes, pushing her forward.

Outside buzzed with pack members loitering after the celebration, their voices a low hum that turned to gasps as Lysander and Ronan emerged with Orion.

"What’s wrong with him?" a woman’s voice trembled, her eyes wide with shock.

"Why does he look like that?" a young warrior muttered, his hand hovering near his blade as if expecting an attack.

The black veins snaking up Orion’s neck and the blood staining his tunic drew horrified stares, but Lysander pressed on, his jaw set, ignoring the questions.

Sophia followed, her steps uneven under the burden of the armor, the sword’s hilt digging into her side. She stumbled, her foot catching on a loose stone, and winced as she nearly dropped the load, but she gritted her teeth and kept moving, her determination unwavering despite the pain.

The medical facility loomed ahead, Lysander and Ronan burst through the heavy wooden door, quickly lowering Orion onto a vacant cot.

His assistants, two young healers with deft hands and focused expressions, rushed to Lysander’s side, their aprons already stained with the day’s earlier efforts.

Sophia dropped the sword and armor with a clatter near the door, her arms aching, but her gaze remained fixed on Orion. His chest rose and fell shallowly, the black veins now creeping toward his jaw, a silent testament to the venom’s relentless advance.

She stepped closer, her breath catching as her eyes traced his form. A dark stain caught her attention, seeping through the fabric of his pants at his thigh, the blood spreading fast and thick. "Lysander!" she called, her voice sharp with alarm as she pointed. "I...I think he’s bleeding somewhere else!"

Lysander’s head snapped up, his curse ringing out as he pushed past an assistant to inspect the new wound. "Gods damn it!" he barked, his pale face tightening with frustration.

He yanked a pair of shears from a nearby table, cutting away the fabric to reveal a jagged tear in Orion’s thigh, the flesh swollen and oozing a mix of red and black.

"Get me a tourniquet, now!" he ordered, his voice a whipcrack. "And bring the silverthorn extract and clean bandages!"

The assistants scrambled, their movements a blur as they obeyed.

Lysander turned to Ronan and Sophia, his expression hard. "Both of you, out! Now!"

His tone left no room for debate, but Ronan hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides.

"I’m staying," Ronan growled, stepping forward. "He’s my best friend and brother, I can help!"

Lysander’s eyes flashed with a rare fury. "Hes my best friend and brother also!"

"Get out, Ronan! I need space to save him. Trust me...please." His voice softened on the last word, a plea wrapped in command, and Ronan swallowed hard, the fight draining from his posture.

With a reluctant nod, he backed toward the door, his broad shoulders slumping.

Sophia followed, her mind a whirlwind as she stepped into the corridor. The weight of Orion’s sword and armor lingered in her muscles, but her thoughts were consumed by the suddenness of his collapse.

Just hours ago, he’d been towering over her, his voice a thunderous roar in their argument. Now, he lay broken, poisoned by a beast she couldn’t shake from her memory. She leaned against the wall, her breath ragged, the cold stone grounding her as Ronan paced nearby.

"How?" She muttered more to herself than Ronan but he understood what she was asking.

Ronan stopped pacing, his dark eyes meeting hers. "I don’t know either. I don’t understand. I was watching him, ready to jump in despite his stupid order if he was in danger. I know he took a hit during the fight," he said, his voice low. "But I never saw the trihydra inserting it’s teeth in him..." He trailed off, his frown deepening as he glanced at the closed door.

Inside, Lysander worked with relentless focus. The tourniquet was applied, a tight band above the thigh wound to stem the bleeding, while an assistant handed him the silverthorn extract, a rare antidote known to neutralize Trihydra venom.

He poured the viscous liquid into a small bowl, mixing it with a crushed leaf of feverfew to enhance its potency, the sharp scent cutting through the room’s herbal haze.

With a steady hand, he dabbed the mixture onto the gash, watching as the black tendrils seemed to recoil, though the blood continued to seep. "Hold his leg steady," he instructed an assistant, who pressed down with gloved hands as Lysander packed the wound with clean bandages soaked in the extract.

The second assistant prepared a saline solution, heating it over a small flame to cleanse the area, but Lysander’s attention shifted to Orion’s neck. The black veins pulsed faintly, a sign the venom hadn’t fully retreated. He cursed again, grabbing a thin reed and dipping it into the silverthorn mixture, then carefully inserted it into a vein near the gash, hoping to deliver the antidote directly. The process was delicate, his hands trembling slightly as he worked, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill.

Outside, the corridor grew crowded with pack members, their whispers a constant murmur. "Is he dying?" a young voice asked, quickly hushed by an elder.

Sophia ignored them, her mind replaying Orion’s harsh words, "Insufferable", and the way he’d carried her back from the Skylur attack. Guilt twisted in her gut, mingling with fear. She’d challenged him, defied him, but now she needed him to survive.

Ronan leaned against the wall beside her, his arms crossed. "He’s tough," he said, as if reading her thoughts. "Toughest bastard I know. But this..." He shook his head. "He’ll get through this. Lysander is the best healer I know." He said as if reassuring himself.

Sophia nodded, her throat tight. "He was fine until..." She hesitated, the Trihydra’s gaze flashing in her mind. "Do you think it’s because of me? Because I was at the gate?"

Ronan’s brow furrowed. "You were at the gate?" He asked her.

Before she could answer, the door creaked open, and an assistant poked his head out, his face grim. "Lysander’s still working, but he says to stay close. It’s touch and go." He retreated, but before closing the door, Sophia caught a glimpse of Orion’s pale face, the black veins stark against his skin.

Inside, Lysander adjusted the tourniquet, loosening it slightly to restore circulation while monitoring the bleeding. The silverthorn was working, the black blood slowing to a trickle, but Orion’s fever spiked, his body trembling on the cot.

Lysander wiped his brow, his pale face reflecting the strain, and turned to his assistants. "More feverfew infusion," he ordered. "And keep the bandages tight, we can’t lose him now."

The assistant nodded, rushing to comply, while Lysander leaned close to Orion, his voice a whisper. "You’ve fought Skylurs, Trihydras, and me you’re not giving up here." It was a plea, a challenge, and a prayer all at once.