The old healer's private chamber was tucked deep in the eastern wing of the palace, far from the grand halls and council chambers. It smelled of dried herbs, aged parchment, and the faint, metallic tang of old magic that lingered like dust in the corners. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with jars of strange liquids, bundles of dried roots, and leather-bound books whose spines had faded with time. A single window let in a narrow beam of afternoon light, illuminating the heavy oak table where the healer worked.
Seren sat across from him, the ancient texts he had given her earlier resting between them. The bond with her mates hummed in the background. She had asked to meet the old healer alone, saying some truths needed to be faced without the weight of three alphas listening.
