Elodie’s hair was worth twelve silver pieces.

The apothecary wanted fifteen to save her brother.

“Take the rest too.” Elodie pulled off her woollen shawl and laid it on the merchant’s counter. “The clasp is real brass.”

The merchant prodded the thick golden braid she had cut from her head that morning. It had reached her waist yesterday. Now uneven strands brushed her jaw, making her reflection in the shop window look like that of a frightened boy.

“Eleven for the hair,” he said. “One for the clasp.”

“You told my neighbour twelve for the hair alone.”

“Your neighbour talks too much.”

Elodie placed both hands on his counter. “And you are buying enough pale hair to make a noblewoman’s wig. You will sell it for ten times what you pay me.”

His eyes narrowed.

Hunger had made Elodie thin. It had not made her stupid.

“Twelve for the hair,” he said at last. “Nothing for that ugly shawl.”

She took the coins before he could change his mind.

Twelve would buy fever tonic and bread. The final three would have to come from the wages Basil was owed by the royal stables.

The apothecary had asked whether Basil had ever shifted before deciding the dose. He had not. Neither had Elodie.

Most wolf-blooded children changed for the first time between thirteen and eighteen. Elodie was twenty-four. No one had expected a wolf from her in years. In the lower market, people used *wolfless* as if it meant harmless, weak or available for heavier work. To the apothecary, it meant only that Basil would heal at an ordinary human pace—and require more tonic than they could afford.

If he still had a position.

Her fifteen-year-old brother had missed six days of work. Palace servants disappeared for less.

Elodie hurried through the lower market wearing Basil’s spare trousers, shirt and cap. Their mother had suggested the disguise because a woman carrying silver alone was an invitation to thieves. Elodie had objected until she saw herself in the cracked mirror.

Small. Flat beneath the loose shirt. Cropped hair hidden under a cap.

No one would look twice.

At the palace gate, no one did.

The guard glanced at Basil’s wooden work token hanging from her neck and waved her through.

Elodie meant only to collect his pay.

She had crossed half the stable yard when a red-haired page spotted her.

“Basil!”

He seized her sleeve and dragged her towards the training enclosure.

“Where have you been? Master Corren is ready to skin you.”

“My sister—”

“Tell me later. Filada threw another groom.”

Elodie could have corrected him.

Then she saw the stablemaster beside the fence, shouting that Basil would be replaced if he failed to appear again.

Her family needed those wages.

She lowered her voice. “What do you need me to do?”

The page stopped pulling.

“Try not to die.”

Inside the enclosure, a white mare fought the reins held by three terrified grooms. Foam darkened her mouth. Her eyes rolled until only crescents of white showed.

A man sat on her back.

Elodie recognised him immediately.

Every coin in the kingdom carried Arvid Dravener’s profile, but the metal had failed to capture how large the Alpha King was. Black hair. Broad shoulders. A face stripped of softness. Even from across the yard, the pressure of his wolf made the other men keep their heads bowed. One wolf-blooded groom had lowered his gaze before the king even looked at him. Beside him, an unshifted stable hand gripped the fence as if the air had become too heavy to breathe.

Filada reared.

One groom lost his grip and fell. The reins jerked hard against the mare’s mouth.

“Stop pulling!” Elodie shouted.

The entire yard went silent.

Arvid turned his grey eyes towards her.

The stablemaster went pale. “Basil, you idiot. Kneel.”

Elodie looked at the mare’s trembling legs.

There was no time to kneel.

She slipped beneath the fence.

“Get out,” Arvid ordered.

“Not while they’re hurting her.”