SCARLETT’S POV

The air in the infirmary smells like bitter root and moon-touched sage.

It clings to the back of my throat as awareness slowly drags me up from the black hole I’d been sinking in. My eyelids feel absurdly heavy, weighted down like stones soaked in rainwater. But when I force them open?

The world comes back in pieces.

There is a white ceiling above my head. A cluster of silver-glow lanterns enchanted to keep injured wolves calm. A shiver of cold against my skin from the ...