Chapter 61 You're Not An Outcast
Alberto pushed the door to his small room in the slave quarters shut behind him and leaned against it for a moment, letting the quiet settle. The matches had taken their toll. His shoulder throbbed where Kael's claws had raked him, his ribs ached from the impact against the ground, and the cut on his thigh burned with every step. Blood had soaked through the rough bandages he had hastily tied, and the metallic scent clung to his skin.
He limped to the narrow cot and sat heavily, pulling the small medical kit from under the bed. The room was sparse, lit by a single candle on the windowsill, the flame flickering against the draft. He peeled away the blood-crusted cloth from his shoulder, wincing as the fabric tugged at the wound. The gash was deep, edges jagged from claws. He poured water from a clay jug over it, hissing at the sting, then reached for the needle and thread.
A knock sounded at the door, sharp and confident.
Alberto's heart leapt. He dropped the needle and hurried to the door, ignoring the pain shooting through his leg. He swung it open, hope bright in his eyes.
Samael stood there, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.
Alberto's face fell. The hope drained away, leaving only disappointment and exhaustion. He turned without a word and walked slowly back to the cot, each step deliberate to hide the limp.
Samael stepped inside and closed the door behind him. "Disappointed I am not Fernando?"
Alberto sat on the cot and picked up the needle again, not looking up. "Why are you here?"
Samael moved closer, his large frame filling the small room. "To help treat your wounds. You look like you lost a fight with a bear."
Alberto threaded the needle, hands shaking slightly. "I can manage."
Samael knelt in front of him, taking the needle gently from his fingers. "Let me."
Alberto finally met his eyes. "You hate me."
Samael shook his head. "I do not hate you. I dislike weaklings. That is all."
Alberto's voice was quiet. "I am weak."
Samael pulled a small dagger from his belt and slashed his own palm without hesitation. Blood welled immediately, dark and thick. He pressed his bleeding hand to Alberto's shoulder wound.
Alberto gasped as the blood touched his skin. Warmth spread through the gash, the torn flesh knitting together before his eyes. The pain faded, the edges sealing into a thin scar.
He stared. "How..."
Samael wiped his hand on his tunic. "Gamma blood. Stronger healing. It will close the worst of it."
Alberto touched the scar, wonder in his voice. "You did not have to."
Samael sat beside him on the cot. "You fought well today. Better than I expected."
Alberto looked down. "I barely won."
Samael nudged him. "You won. Against Kael in wolf form. That is not barely."
Alberto's eyes filled with unshed tears. "I do not want to be an outcast. I want to be strong. Worthy of being your friend. Worthy of standing in this pack."
Samael placed a hand on his shoulder. "You already earned my respect. The way you kept attacking, not giving Kael space. The way you stood after he shifted. That is not weakness."
Alberto wiped his eyes. "I will become stronger. I swear it."
Samael smiled, genuine this time. "I believe you. And when you are ready, we will train together. No holding back."
Alberto nodded. "Thank you."
Samael stood. "Rest now. Tomorrow we continue."
He left, the door closing softly.
The next morning broke cold and gray over the keep. Alberto rose from his cot in the slave quarters, every muscle protesting from the previous day's brutal matches. The soreness lingered, a dull reminder of the blood he had drawn and the blood he had spilled. He gathered a clean tunic and a small bar of soap, heading toward the shared bathroom at the end of the corridor. The slave quarters were quiet at this hour, most wolves still asleep or beginning early chores. The bathroom was a large, tiled room with stone basins and buckets filled from the communal well.
Alberto filled a bucket with water from the pump and carried it to one of the private stalls. He stripped off his clothes and poured the first scoop over his head, sighing as the cool water washed away the sweat and grime. The second scoop followed, running down his chest and back.
Then the itching started.
It began as a faint tingle on his arms, like insects crawling under the skin. He paused, frowning, and poured another scoop. The tingle turned to burning. Small bumps rose on his skin, red and angry, spreading rapidly across his chest, arms, and legs. His body began to swell, skin tightening as the reaction worsened.
Alberto winced in pain, dropping the bucket with a clatter. He scratched at his arms, nails digging into flesh, but the itching only intensified. His throat tightened, breath coming shorter.
He stumbled to the basin and splashed more water on his face, hoping to rinse it away. The burning spread to his eyes, vision blurring slightly. He grabbed the bucket and sniffed the remaining water. A faint, acrid scent lingered, not the clean well water he knew.
The water had been spiked.
Panic surged, but he forced it down. He wrapped a towel around himself and staggered back to his room, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his swelling skin. He collapsed onto the cot, focusing on the bond with the Thornwood, calling on his keeper power to tone the poison.
Green light flickered faintly around his hands as he pressed them to his chest, trying to draw the toxin out. The bumps slowed their spread, but the swelling continued. His heart beat sluggishly, each thump weaker than the last.
He coughed, blood spattering the floor. His vision blurred further, the room tilting.
"Not now," he whispered. "Not like this."
He tried again, pouring more power into the effort. The light brightened briefly, easing the itching in his arms, but the poison was strong. His body shook with the strain.
Another cough brought more blood. His limbs grew heavy.
He lay back, fighting to stay conscious. The matches. He had to get to the yard.
Back in the elite training yard, the morning sun climbed higher, but the air remained crisp. Fernando sat on the raised podium beside Darius, his expression unreadable. Samael paced the edge of the circle, arms folded. The ten elite soldiers stood ready, steel in hand, faces a mix of impatience and disdain.
"Where is he?" Kael muttered. "Keeping us waiting like we have nothing better to do."
Lena crossed her arms. "It is because the Alpha favors him. He barely won yesterday, and now he thinks he can make us wait."
Rorik nodded. "Special treatment for the keeper."
Elise glanced at Fernando. "If he does not show, does he forfeit?"
Fernando's voice cut through the murmurs. "If Alberto does not arrive in five minutes, he loses. He will take one hundred lashes as punishment."
The elites exchanged glances, some smirking.
Samael stopped pacing. "Five minutes start now."
The yard fell silent, only the wind rustling the banners.
One minute passed. Two.
Kael whispered to Lena. "He is scared. He knows he cannot win today."
Three minutes.
Rorik chuckled. "The Alpha will see his favorite is not elite material."
Four minutes.
Samael glanced at Fernando. "He might not come."
Fernando's jaw tightened. "One more minute."
The elites shifted, ready to claim victory.
At the last second, as Samael opened his mouth to announce the forfeit, a figure crawled into the yard.
Alberto dragged himself through the gate on hands and knees, soaked in blood, skin swollen and red with angry bumps. His tunic clung wetly to him, stained dark. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose, leaving a trail on the ground.
He collapsed at the edge of the circle, gasping, barely conscious.
The yard went dead silent.