Seraphina 9

The days that followed the initial food insult blurred into a relentless cycle of hunger and growing weakness.

My body, once a finely tuned instrument of the Sect, now felt like a fragile shell. Each morning, rising from bed was a monumental task, my muscles protesting with dull aches, my head swimming with dizziness that threatened to pull me back into the dark.

Lara, ever present, became my anchor, her small hands guiding me, her worried eyes reflecting the alarming toll this ordeal was taking on me. I spent most of my time either in bed or on the chaise, conserving every ounce of energy.

The small pouch of dried fruits and nuts I had brought from the Sect was dwindling rapidly, its contents barely enough to keep me from complete collapse.

The Bloodmoon Pack's cruel routine continued without fail. Every meal brought the same lumpy, unappetizing gruel, or stale, warmed over bread for breakfast.

Each time, the sight alone was enough to churn my stomach, not with hunger, but with profound disgust. I refused to touch it, my resolve hardening with each passing hour. My pride, though bruised and tested, refused to let me beg or show any visible sign of breaking.

Elias remained conspicuously absent from every meal, his indifference a constant, gnawing pain that mingled with my physical hunger. His lack of presence, the quiet accusation of his empty seat, was almost as debilitating as the food itself. It reinforced the notion that he either approved of this treatment or simply didn't care enough to intervene.

Lara's concern for me deepened visibly with each passing day. Her face, usually so gentle and composed, was now often etched with a quiet anguish. Her small, plump cheeks seemed a little thinner, her usually cheerful demeanor replaced by a constant, nervous watchfulness.

She tried desperately to sneak me some food from the kitchens, small pieces of roasted meat or fresh vegetables she claimed she could get.

But I always gently, yet firmly, refused. "No, Lara," I'd whisper, my voice growing raspy from lack of proper nourishment. "If you were caught that would make things worse"

She would sigh, her shoulders slumping in helpless understanding, but her loyalty never wavered.

Her inquiries around the Pack House transformed from timid curiosity into something more purposeful and discreet.

She'd wander the vast, echoing halls, lingering near the servants' quarters, and even brave the edges of the bustling, chaotic kitchen, becoming a small, unassuming shadow observing everything. She was trying to piece together the truth, to understand why this brutal treatment was being inflicted upon me.

Lara would often return to my chambers with snippets of overheard conversations, small details about the Alpha's demanding schedule, and the general mood of the Pack.

She became my invaluable link to the world outside my gilded cage.

One afternoon, as the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in muted oranges and grays, Lara returned to my room. Her usual quiet entrance was replaced by a rapid, almost breathless movement.

Her eyes were wide with a mix of fear, urgency, and an odd sort of excitement that transformed her usually placid features. She held a small, wrapped bundle close to her chest, pressing it against her tunic as if it were a precious, fragile secret.

"My lady," she whispered, her voice barely audible, laced with a tremor of suppressed emotion. "Someone spoke to me."

I sat up slowly, my head throbbing with the familiar dull ache, my full attention instantly on her. My weariness lifted, replaced by a surge of cautious alertness. "Who, Lara? What happened? Speak clearly."

"A woman," Lara said, her eyes darting to the closed door, then around the room, as if expecting someone to burst in. "She works in the laundry. She pulled me aside, very quickly, near the back stairs, where no one else was. She said she knows you are here. And that the Sect knows. She said to tell you 'the verdant roots run deep, even in barren lands.'"

Lara recited the phrase, her voice a little shaky, clearly awed by the secrecy and the weight of the exchange. "And that you are not alone. She said to eat this, and she will try to bring more when she can."

My heart gave a sudden, hard thump in my chest. An infiltrator. After all this time, a direct contact. Father had indeed been planning for every contingency. He wouldn't leave his daughter completely unprotected, even in the heart of enemy territory. It was a testament to the Sect's foresight and reach.

Lara carefully, almost reverently, unwrapped the bundle. Inside, nestled in clean, soft cloth, were several pieces of glistening smoked meat, a small, firm cheese, and a handful of plump, dark, dried berries.

The scent alone was intoxicating, rich and savory, utterly unlike the tasteless slop I had been forced to endure. My stomach roared in protest, a violent, painful cramp of desperate hunger. For a brief moment, the disciplined facade I had maintained threatened to crack.

"She said to eat this now, my lady," Lara urged, her own eyes watering slightly at the sight of the nourishing food.

A wave of relief, potent and unfamiliar, washed over me. It was a strange mix of gratitude and a sharp pang of annoyance.

My calculated suffering, my grand plan of leverage, was now complicated by this intervention. But the sheer luxury of real food, the solid promise of backup from my Sect, was undeniable. It was a lifeline, a tangible link to my home and father's unwavering support.

"Thank you, Lara," I managed, my voice thick with emotion, husky from disuse. "You did well. Very well."

I ate the food slowly, savoring every bite. The rich, smoky flavor of the meat, the tangy saltiness of the cheese, the sweet burst of the berries was like tasting life itself after weeks of deprivation.

Each mouthful was a blessing, a small victory against their cruelty. The immediate physical comfort was immense, a warmth spreading through my empty stomach, but more importantly, it was a profound psychological boost. I wasn't entirely alone. My Sect had eyes and ears here, watching over me, supporting my mission from the shadows.

Over the next few days, the laundry woman, whose name Lara later learned was Morgan, managed to slip Lara more small bundles of food during her various errands. It wasn't enough to restore me to full strength, not by a long shot, but it was enough to keep the absolute worst of the dizziness and debilitating weakness at bay.

It made the edges of the world a little less blurry, allowing me to think with a clearer head, to better strategize. It was enough to maintain my appearance of extreme weakness without risking actual, irreparable damage to my health before the wedding.

I continued to steadfastly refuse the Pack's meager meals in the dining hall, keeping up the pretense of utter deprivation for the sake of my plan. The plan for leverage was still vital, but now I had a safety net, a hidden advantage that gave me a fighting chance.

One evening, as twilight deepened outside my window, Lara returned from her usual rounds, her small face pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and incandescent fury. Her usual composure was completely gone. She wasn't just worried anymore; she was genuinely enraged, her hands clenched into tiny fists at her sides.

"My lady," she began, her voice a tight whisper, trembling with barely controlled anger that made her usually soft demeanor seem formidable. "I found out who is doing this to you. All of it."

My heart tightened in my chest. I had suspected it wasn't Elias directly, not entirely. But who in his Pack would dare orchestrate such systematic cruelty? My gaze narrowed, urging her to continue. "Who, Lara? Tell me everything."

"It's Cynthia" Lara hissed, the name a venomous curse on her lips. "The Head Cook. I overheard her talking to some of the other kitchen staff today. She was laughing, my lady. Laughing about the 'outsider' getting what she deserved. She's the one who ordered the scraps, and told them not to send maids for your bath. She even boasted about how she told them to 'break the Sect Princess' and make you wish you'd never come! She said you're a threat to their Alpha and their ways, and that she won't let you taint their lineage!"

Lara's eyes blazed, a raw, protective fury I had rarely seen in her. "It's all her, my lady. All of it. A deliberate act of cruelty from her, and she has others helping her!"

The name echoed in my mind, hardening my resolve, Cynthia. The Head Cook.

So, it wasn't just cold indifference from Elias. It was active malice orchestrated by one of his trusted subordinates, someone who held significant sway over the daily workings of the Pack House. And she was doing it with clear intent to break me, to undermine my position and my very existence within their Pack.