Chapter 38: Whispers in the Dark

The medical facility hummed with a tense quiet, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the vast room where Orion lay.

The air was thick with the bitter scent of herbs and the metallic tang of blood, a testament to the battle waged against the Trihydra’s venom.

Lysander stood beside the bed, his hands finally still after hours of relentless effort. His clothes, once a crisp tunic, were now filthy, stained with Orion’s black and red blood, clinging to his sweat-soaked frame.

Strands of blonde hair had escaped his bun, framing a face etched with exhaustion, his pale skin sallow under the strain. He wiped his brow with a trembling hand, letting out a deep, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the night.

Orion’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the black veins on his neck and hands having receded slightly, though the gash on his side and the fresh wound on his thigh remained bandaged and raw. Lysander had done all he could, administering silverthorn extract, crafting poultices, and delivering the antidote directly into Orion’s veins. All that was left was for Orion to wake up.

Ronan lingered nearby, having been told by Lysander that he could ebter now that he was done with administering treatment.

"How’s he holding up?" he asked, his voice low, breaking the silence.

Lysander turned, his expression grim but steady. "I’ve done everything possible. The venom’s been neutralized for now and the worst is avoided. But he may have delusions here and there and I don’t mean when he wakes up. It’s common with Trihydra poison, a side effect of the mind fighting the toxin."

Ronan’s head tilted, concern deepening. "Delusions...okay, we can handle that. When will he wake up?"

Lysander’s shoulders slumped, and he avoided Ronan’s gaze for a moment, staring at the blood-streaked floor. "I don’t know," he admitted, his voice rough. "He’ll be out of sorts for some time, days, maybe longer. The delusions could linger, but he’s strong. He’ll pull through if his will holds."

The words hung heavy, a mix of relief and uncertainty that settled over the room.

Ronan nodded, processing the news, while Lysander ran a hand through his loose hair, trying to gather the strands back into some semblance of order.

Before the silence could deepen, the door creaked open, and Rita, one of the apprentices, stepped in. Her youthful face was drawn with fatigue, her apron smeared with herbal stains, but her eyes held a flicker of hope. "Lysander," she said softly, "Brynhild’s awake. She’s asking for you."

Lysander’s head snapped up, a spark of life returning to his tired features. The medical center was a sprawling complex, its many rooms separated by thick stone walls and arched corridors. Orion’s treatment room, with its bed and scattered medical tools, was distinct from the recuperation chamber where Brynhild had been resting, her own battle with exhaustion and pregnancy having taken its toll. He glanced at Ronan, a question in his eyes.

"Go see her," Ronan said, his voice firm but gentle. "I’ll stay with Orion. He’s not waking anytime soon, and I owe him that much." His gaze shifted to the alpha, a silent vow in his stance.

Lysander nodded gratefully, his filthy hands brushing against his tunic as he moved toward the door. Sophia, who had been hovering near the bed with her eyes wide with worry, stepped forward.

Her hands twisted the hem of her cloak, the weight of the night pressing on her shoulders. She’d carried Orion’s gear, fetched water, and watched the healers work, but the sight of him, pale, motionless, veins still faintly dark, kept her rooted in fear.

Ronan noticed her distress and approached, his presence a steadying force. "Sophia, go to your house and sleep," he said, his tone kind but insistent. "It’s past midnight, most of the pack’s bedded down after Lysander’s word that Orion will survive. You need rest."

She opened her mouth to argue, her stubborn streak flaring, but a huge yawn betrayed her exhaustion, stretching her jaw wide.

Ronan chuckled, a sound that lightened the air for a moment, and gave her a gentle push toward the door. "See? Even your body agrees. Go on."

Sophia hesitated, her mind racing. "But what if it’s my fault?" she blurted, her voice trembling. "We were arguing, and then he collapsed. Maybe the Trihydra... maybe it was because I was at the gate." The words spilled out, a confession born of guilt, her eyes darting between Ronan and the bed.

Lysander, pausing at the door, turned back with a scoff, his exhaustion giving way to exasperation. "That’s nonsense, Sophia," he said, his voice firm. "The venom was in him long before your spat. I’m sure of it. Trihydra poison doesn’t work that fast or care about arguments. It’s a beast’s doing, not yours." His certainty was a lifeline, and though his rough demeanor softened, it carried the weight of his expertise.

Sophia exhaled, the tension in her chest easing with his reassurance. After a moment’s persuasion from Ronan, another gentle nudge and a promise to send word if anything changed, she relented. "Fine," she muttered, her yawn returning as she shuffled toward the exit. "But wake me if he stirs." Ronan nodded, watching her go with a faint smile.

As Sophia disappeared into the corridor, Lysander made his way to Brynhild’s room, the distance between the chambers a short but heavy trek. The medical center’s vastness echoed with the soft shuffle of assistants and the occasional groan from other patients, but Brynhild’s chamber was a haven of quiet strength.

He pushed open the door, his heart lifting at the sight of her.

Brynhild lay propped against pillows, her black skin contrasting with the pale linens, her hair spilling over her shoulders, the packed-up portion slightly askew from sleep. The scar on her left cheek, a jagged line from a past fight, caught the dim light, a mark of her resilience.

Her nose scrunched up as her brows furrowed in confusion. "I love you but I’ll be honest with you." She said to Lysander.

"What’s wrong?" He asked her worriedly.

"You smell."