ZARIA'S POV 
The heavy adrenaline that had kept me upright for hours finally evaporated, leaving behind a cold, crushing weight that settled deep into my bones. Every muscle in my body felt like lead, and a sharp, throbbing ache flared in my ribs every time I tried to take a deep breath. I sat on the edge of the bed in my temporary quarters, staring blankly at the stone floor, just trying to stop my hands from shaking.
The heavy oak door clicked open, and Helen walked in. She was carrying a steaming ceramic mug and a basin of warm water with a clean linen cloth draped over the edge.
Usually, Helen’s presence was a quiet comfort. She had a steady, grounding warmth to her that always made me feel safe, no matter how chaotic the palace got. But the moment the door closed behind her, I realized that warmth was completely gone. Her jaw was set in a rigid, unforgiving line, and her movements were stiff, sharp, and entirely clinical. She set the water basin down on the side table with a hollow thud, not even looking me in the eye.
She picked up the linen cloth, dipped it into the warm water, and wrung it out with quick, tight twists of her wrists. When she sat down beside me, she didn't offer a reassuring smile or ask how I was holding up. Instead, she grabbed my forearm and began wiping away the dried blood and greenhouse dirt with harsh, heavy strokes. Her hands weren't gentle. She pressed down a little too hard against a deep, purple bruise on my wrist, making me hiss and instinctively pull back.
Helen didn't apologize. She didn't even blink. She simply gripped my wrist tighter, dipped the cloth back into the water—which was quickly turning a murky, pale pink—and kept working with a cold, terrifying efficiency.
"If I'm being too rough, you can tell me," She said quietly, the silence in the room becoming too heavy to bear.
Helen stopped. She squeezed the damp cloth in her fist, letting the water drip slowly back into the basin, before she finally turned her head to look at me. Her dark eyes were entirely stripped of the kindness I had grown used to. They were hard, piercing, and burning with a deep, quiet anger she was no longer trying to hide.
"The scratches on your skin will heal in a week, Zaria," Helen said, her voice flat and dangerously calm. She turned and picked up the ceramic mug, setting it down roughly on the wooden table right in front of me. A dark, bitter herbal tea steamed inside it, the sharp scent of roots and crushed leaves instantly filling the space between us. "Drink it. It's for the internal bruising."
I reached out, my trembling fingers curling around the warm ceramic for comfort, but I didn't take a sip. "Helen... what's wrong? Talk to me."
"What's wrong?" Helen let out a short, humorless breath, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as she stood up and loomed over me. "Look around you, Zaria. Just look at the state of this wing. There is rogue blood soaking into the black marble of our hallways. The royal greenhouse is nothing but shattered glass and ruined soil. Maeve is sitting in the medical wing right now with a severe concussion, and Maya is wrapped in bandages because a beast tried to tear her ribs apart."
"I didn't want any of this to happen," I whispered, a painful lump forming in my throat. I looked down at my hands, feeling the sting of the tiny cuts across my knuckles. "I didn't ask for Cynthia to send those men."
"Intentions don't clean up corpses, Zaria," Helen spat, her voice rising just enough to cut through the quiet room like a blade. "Before you arrived, the Shadowpelt was a fortress. We had peace. We had security. Our people went to sleep knowing the walls would hold. But since the very day you walked through our gates, you have brought nothing but blood, ruin, and death to this kingdom. You dragged your pack's filthy, corrupt politics right to our doorstep, and our people are the ones paying for it."
The words hit me like a physical blow to the chest, completely knocking the breath out of my lungs. I wanted to defend myself, to argue, to tell her that I was a victim in all of this too, but the sheer, brutal truth in her eyes stopped me cold. She was right. The blood on the floor belonged to the people who had tried to protect me.
Helen took a step closer, leaning down until her face was only inches from mine, forcing me to look into her unyielding eyes.
"You are a human girl with the ghost of a fated mate chasing you across the continent," Helen said, each word dropping like a heavy stone. "Cassian is a Lycan King. He is supposed to be an untouchable, unshakeable leader for the North. Do you have any idea what he did today? The absolute second he heard the palace was under siege, he broke every law the Continental Council holds sacred. He dropped his aura, threatened half the Alphas in the room, and literally tore his own wolf apart sprinting across the continent because he was terrified for you. He didn't think about his crown. He didn't think about his people or the political fallout. He only thought about you."
She stood back up to her full height, her expression hardening into a cold, final judgment.
"You are his weakness, Zaria. And in our world, a weak King is a dead King. The enemies of the North look at you, and they see an easy target. They know exactly how to break him now. They know how to bring him to his knees without ever striking his shield. If you actually care about him—if you actually care whether he survives the winter—you will pack your bags, and you will leave this palace."
She didn't wait for me to answer. She didn't give me a chance to cry or beg or explain. Helen turned on her heel, picked up the basin of bloody water, and marched straight out of the room. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind her, and the sharp click of the lock turning echoed loudly in the sudden, suffocating silence.
I sat completely still in the middle of the quiet room, the heat of the ceramic mug slowly burning into my palms. I stared down into the dark, bitter surface of the tea, watching the steam rise up, twist in the air, and disappear into the cold shadows of the ceiling.
Helen’s words cut deeper than any blade Cynthia’s assassins had carried. They twisted inside my chest, planting a heavy, agonizing seed of doubt that I couldn't shake. I looked around the grand stone room, at the heavy furs and the dark wood that had slowly started to feel like a real home, and for the first time since Cassian had brought me to the North, I wondered if I truly belonged by his side—or if I was just the person who was going to get him killed.