Chapter 18 Two Days Of Breath
The infirmary was quiet except for the low crackle of the brazier and the wet, labored sound of Alberto drawing air. Fernando stood at the foot of the cot, arms folded so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The boy looked smaller than ever beneath the blankets, skin translucent, veins black beneath the surface like ink spilled under ice. The silver poisoning had spread farther in a single night. Dark threads now crawled across his throat and down both arms, reaching for the heart.
Mira moved around the bed with the silent efficiency of someone who had long ago stopped believing in miracles but refused to stop fighting for them. She adjusted the drip of bitter green liquid into Alberto’s vein, checked the poultice over the stomach wound, and pressed two fingers to the pulse at his neck. Her face gave nothing away until she turned to Fernando.
“He slipped deeper before dawn,” she said, voice low so the two assistants across the room would not hear. “The poison is winning faster than I can slow it. I have done everything left in the old books and a few things not in any book. Without fresh silverroot and the red lotus extract, he has two days. Maybe less.”
Fernando’s gaze never left Alberto’s face. “Two days.”
“At most.” Mira wiped her hands on her apron, leaving faint rust colored streaks. “His heart is failing. When it stops, even the moon herself will not call him back.”
Fernando’s jaw flexed. He reached out as though to touch Alberto’s shoulder, then let his hand fall. “The supply caravan from the lowlands reaches us tomorrow night. They carry everything you asked for. Silverroot. Red lotus. Fresh bloodroot. You will keep him breathing until then.”
Mira met his eyes steadily. “I will keep him breathing until the last possible heartbeat, Alpha. But I will not lie to you. Two days is a promise the poison may not allow me to keep.”
Fernando gave a single, curt nod and left the curtained alcove. His boots echoed down the corridor like hammer blows.
He found Darius in the armory corridor, sharpening arrows by torchlight. The younger wolf looked up at the sound of approaching steps and rose instantly.
“When does the caravan arrive?” Fernando asked without greeting.
“Tomorrow night, just after moonrise,” Darius answered. “I received word from the outriders an hour ago. They had a better time than expected. Twelve wagons. Heavy guard.”
Fernando’s eyes were flat and cold. “Tell Mira she has until tomorrow night. After that, no excuses.”
Darius hesitated. “Fernando—”
“Tell her.”
Darius inclined his head and left at a run.
Fernando stood alone in the flickering light for a long moment, staring at nothing. Then he turned and climbed the narrow stairs toward the council chamber.
The great hall had been cleared of all but the long oak table and seven high-backed chairs. The council of elders waited, gray muzzles and scarred hands, eyes sharp despite their age. Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls. The fire in the massive hearth roared, yet the room felt cold.
Elder Corvin rose first, gnarled fingers braced on the table. His voice carried the weight of seventy winters.
“Alpha,” he began, “we have studied the documents Alberto brought. Maps of every southern stronghold. Patrol rotations. Guard posts. Supply caches. And Vargus himself is wounded, perhaps dying. The rogue pack is in disarray. This is the moment we have waited years for.”
Elder Sabine leaned forward, her single eye gleaming. “We strike now. A swift, hard blow. We take their eastern gate, burn their granaries, free the princess, and end Vargus before he recovers. The maps give us the advantage we have never had.”
Elder Torin, youngest of the council but no less fierce, slammed a fist on the table. “Liana is in their hands. Every day we wait is another day she suffers. We owe her blood for blood.”
One by one the others added their voices, a rising chorus of agreement. Attack. Strike. End it. Rescue the princess. Avenge the insult. Take back what was stolen.
Fernando listened without moving, arms folded, face carved from winter stone. When the last voice faded, he spoke.
“No.”
The single word fell into the room like a blade into still water.
Corvin frowned. “Alpha—”
“I said no.” Fernando stepped forward until he stood at the head of the table, towering over them all. “You speak of advantage. You speak of maps and wounded Alphas and swift strikes. You speak as though this were a game of strategy on parchment.” His voice dropped to a growl that rattled the tankards on the table. “My sister is not a marker on a map.”
Sabine tried again, softer. “Fernando, we all love Liana—”
“Then act like it.” He cut her off with a slash of his hand. “If she were dead, Vargus would have sent her body. He would have paraded her head on a pike along the border for all to see. He did not. That means she lives. And while she lives, she is leveraged. The moment we march south in force, her throat is the first one he cuts.”
Torin surged to his feet. “So we do nothing? We leave her in chains?”
“We do not throw away hundreds of lives on a reckless charge because hot blood demands it,” Fernando answered coldly. “We wait. We watch. We prepare. And when the time is right, when we know exactly where she is and how to reach her without walking into a trap, then we bring her home.”
Corvin’s ears flattened. “And if the time never comes? If Vargus recovers? If he decides to send pieces of her instead of the whole?”
Fernando’s smile was a terrible thing, all teeth and no warmth. “Then I will go alone. I will tear his stronghold apart stone by stone with my bare hands until I find her or until there is nothing left of him to bury.”
Silence fell, thick and stunned.
Elder Sabine studied him for a long moment, then slowly sat back. “You would risk the entire pack for one life?”
“I would burn the world to keep my sister breathing,” Fernando said simply. “And any wolf who disagrees can challenge me here and now.”
No one moved.
Fernando swept his gaze across them all, letting the weight of it settle. “We are not ready. Not yet. The maps are a gift, yes, but gifts can hide poison. We study them. We send scouts. We strengthen our borders. And we keep Alberto alive, because only he knows the truth of what he saw.”
He turned to leave, pausing at the door. “There will be no war council vote tonight. There will be no march south. My word is final.”
The door closed behind him with a heavy thud.
In the corridor outside, Darius waited, face grim.
“They wanted war,” he said quietly.
“They always want war,” Fernando replied. “Until it is their pups coming home in pieces.”
He started walking. Darius fell beside him.
“Tomorrow night,” Fernando said. “When the caravan arrives, you will personally oversee the unloading of every crate of medicine. You will carry it to Mira yourself. And you will stand guard over Alberto until he opens his eyes and tells me what really happened in the south.”
Darius nodded. “And Liana?”
Fernando’s steps did not slow, but his voice dropped to something raw and lethal.
“I will get her back. But I will not trade one child for the other. Not tonight.”
They walked on through the keep, two shadows against the torchlight, while behind them the elders sat in stunned silence and the poison counted down the final hours in Alberto’s veins.
Two days.
Maybe less.
But Fernando had never been a man who accepted maybe.