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Chapter 5

Zara Fen POV

When I finally woke up, the frantic noise of the clearing was gone, replaced by a steady, rhythmic thump-creak of a wooden loom.

I wasn't in a cell and I wasn't in a grave either, which was a big relief, but I was in a small, sun-drenched attic room above the pack’s textile workshop. The air smelled of three distinct things: the rich lanolin of raw wool, the sharp cleanliness of dried lavender, and the deep warmth of cedar. The scents were so clean they made the memory of the boundary woods feel like a fever dream.

My right arm was bandaged tightly in clean linen. The fever from the feral bite had broken three days ago, leaving me weak, exhausted, but, for the first time in my life, remarkably still.

"You're awake," a voice said from the corner.

An older woman sat by the window, her fingers moving with practiced grace as she carded wool. She had the steady, grounded scent of a wolf who had seen too many winters, buried too many mates, and tolerated too little nonsense to be easily impressed.

"Alpha Silas said you’d be hungry when the cloud finally lifted," she said, nodding toward a bowl of thick broth on the bedside table. "I’m Martha. This is my shop. He decided that if you’re going to stay, you might as well be useful."

I sat up slowly, my muscles protesting with a stiff, tearing ache. "He's letting me stay?"

"He doesn't give second chances, but Emily has been a pain in the ass." Martha said, her eyes meeting mine with a sharp, calculating look. "And you brought back that token. In Dawnridge, we don't care much for Silvercrest curses. We don't care about unfit labels. We care if you can pull your weight. He's given you a month to prove you can."

I looked down at my hands. They were scarred, rough, and stained with the dark dirt of the forest.

"But, I don't know how to weave," I admitted quietly.

Martha chuckled, a dry, warm sound that rattled in her chest. "You survived the boundary woods with a rusted blade and a broken bond, girl. And after your fever broke you were still stuck in your head. You can learn to throw a shuttle. It’s better than being a warrior. Threads don't bleed, threads don't scream, and threads don't die when you pull them too hard."

The weeks that followed were the quietest of my life.

Life in Dawnridge was completely different from the luxury of Silvercrest. There were no grand ceremonies every weekend, no hovering priests judging my every breath, and no silver mirrors tucked into every corner to remind me of what I lacked. Most of the pack ignored me, which was a mercy. Here, I wasn't the broken mate; I was just the weaver’s apprentice.

I spent my days losing myself in the rhythm of the workshop. I learned the language of wool. I learned the difference between the soft under-fur, the rough outer guard hairs, and the heavy winter fleece. I learned how to dye yarn using crushed berries, boiled bark, and wild moss.

There was a hypnotic peace in the repetition. Over, under. Over, under.

One rainy afternoon, I was alone in the shop, finishing a heavy winter cloak for a patrol scout. The rhythmic clack of the wooden shuttle had lulled me into a deep trance, my mind drifting back to the phantom ache of the broken bond in my chest.

"The color is good."

I jolted, the wooden shuttle slipping from my hand and clattering against the floor.

Alpha Silas stood in the doorway. He was wearing a simple, fitted black t-shirt, looking less like a ruthless ruler and more like a man. But the raw power rolling off his skin still made the small attic room feel impossibly cramped.

“Thank you, Alpha," I said, keeping my head level. I remembered Emily's advice: Don't bow. Don't cower. Don't look at the floor.

Silas stepped further into the room. His presence filled the space until the air grew thick, his gold-flecked gaze fixed completely on the cloak in my hands. It was a deep midnight blue, dyed from the heavy indigo berries I had found near the border.

“I heard from Martha that you work faster than anyone she has ever trained,” Silas said calmly, his voice a low vibration that thrummed through the floorboards. “She also said you don't follow the patterns she gives you.”

My heart began to hammer against my ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm. Was this it? Was this the excuse he needed to exile me? “I just follow my own ideas. I didn't mean any disrespect to the craft, Alpha.”

He reached out. His calloused, heavy fingers grazed the fabric, and I watched his eyes narrow as he felt the texture of the weave. In a world of machines and mass production, my hand-woven wool felt entirely different. It felt heavy. It felt alive.

"The patrol scouts who wore your first batch of cloaks came back from the boundary yesterday," he said, finally lifting his eyes to mine. "They were caught in a silver-mist storm. The type of toxic weather that usually leaves a wolf’s skin blistered, raw, and bleeding right through their uniform."

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening against the wood of the loom. “Are they alright?”

"They’re fine, Zara. Not a single mark on them." Silas stepped closer, his massive shadow completely swallowing the loom and pinning me in place. "The silver didn't touch them. The wool you wove repelled the toxin, neutralized the magic, and acted like a shield."

I stared at him, my mind spinning into complete confusion. "It’s just wool, Alpha. It’s just a cloak.”

Silas leaned in, his scent of fresh rain, crushed pine, and pure dominant Alpha overwhelming my senses.

“You have done a great job, Zara. We will need more cloaks for the winter if we are going to survive the border routes." He looked down at my wrist, where the faint golden hue was still buried deep beneath my skin. "But we both know that isn't just wool. You didn't just weave a garment, Zara. You wove a defense."

He backed away, leaving me breathless in the sudden draft of the cold attic air.

Silas murmured from the doorway, his eyes flashing a dangerous, blinding gold. "I think I just found my secret weapon."