The first infected soldier arrived at dawn, carried through the southern gates wrapped in blood-soaked blankets while frost still clung to his boots.

By noon, there were forty-three more lined across the lower infirmary halls, their bodies burning with fever beneath iron-gray skin.

By nightfall, the Vane estate smelled less like sandalwood and sea salt and more like boiled herbs, blood, sweat, and something metallic rotting beneath it all.

Iron-Rot.

Not a plague. A weapon.

Lyra stood above the infirmary balcony with both hands resting against the cold marble railing while healers rushed below her in frantic waves of movement.

Southern physicians moved between cots carrying bowls of steaming silver-salve while northern soldiers convulsed hard enough to shake the wooden frames beneath them. Blackened veins spread beneath skin like fractures through frozen rivers.

Some of the infected clawed at their own throats until their nails came away red. Others stared blankly upward while silver foam gathered slowly at the corners of their mouths.

The worst part was the sound.

Not the screaming.

The wolves.

The Silver Pulse was no longer a power she wielded; it was a biological takeover.

It had connected Lyra too deeply to the continental bond-network weeks ago, and now every infected northern wolf echoed through her nervous system like broken static. Pain moved through pack bonds in violent bursts—panic, fever, confusion, instinctive terror.

Hundreds of wolves across the Eastern Pass burning alive from the inside while their Alphas slowly lost control of entire military units.

Below her, another soldier collapsed sideways from his cot and hit the stone floor hard enough to split his lip open. A healer rushed forward instinctively, grabbing his shoulders to steady him.

Lucien crossed the room immediately.

"Don't touch—"

Too late.

The healer froze mid-motion as dark veins spread beneath the skin of her wrist almost instantly. The bowl in her hand shattered against the floor.

Around the infirmary, several southern medics stepped backward at once. One northern Beta began growling low in his throat, fever-bright eyes fixed on the infected healer like an animal sensing weakness in the pack.

The room changed after that.

Fear entered it.

Lucien's jaw tightened while he pulled gloves over bloodstained hands and ordered the infected healer isolated behind silver screens. He never raised his voice, but the tension in the infirmary sharpened instantly around him.

Servants stopped speaking.

Guards stopped moving unnecessarily.

Even the dying wolves seemed quieter now, as though the estate itself understood something catastrophic had begun.

"It spreads through blood," one of the physicians whispered.

Lucien didn't answer.

He didn't need to.

Lightning flashed outside the tall infirmary windows, illuminating the southern cliffs in pale silver. Rain hammered violently against the glass while thunder rolled somewhere far out over the sea. Lyra closed her eyes briefly, but it didn't help. The wolves were still there inside her head.

Too many.

Too loud.

The Silver Pulse beneath her skin reacted violently every time another infected soldier screamed downstairs. The power didn't understand distance anymore. It reached instinctively toward suffering, toward broken wolves, toward collapsing bonds. Several candles along the balcony extinguished themselves as silver light flickered faintly beneath the veins in her wrists.

Behind her came the sound of boots crossing marble.

Cassian.

She recognized him instantly now without needing to turn. Heavy steps. Controlled pace. A predator forcing restraint onto instincts built entirely around protection and possession.

He stopped several feet behind her instead of immediately closing the distance. That still mattered.

"The lower valley outposts collapsed this morning," he said quietly. Rainwater darkened the shoulders of his black military coat, and blood streaked one sleeve almost to the elbow. Not his own. "The eastern scouts estimate at least two hundred infected by nightfall."

Lyra finally turned toward him.

Cassian looked exhausted in a way she had never seen before. Not physically. Something deeper than that. The sharp military precision that usually held him together had begun fraying around the edges over the last few weeks. His eyes tracked every sound from the infirmary below as though each scream physically carved into him.

"How many villages?" she asked.

Cassian exhaled once through his nose before answering. "Five confirmed. Maybe more by dawn."

Another scream tore upward through the lower halls.

Neither of them looked away this time.

Below the balcony, a northern guard began seizing violently while two healers struggled to keep him restrained. His wolf was trying to shift through the fever. Bones cracked loudly beneath skin. One of the physicians started crying while still attempting to hold him down.

"The infected all crossed the same abandoned border tunnels," Cassian continued. "Darius contaminated the routes deliberately."

"He wants me," Lyra said.

The words settled heavily into the storm-lit silence between them.

They both understood it.

Darius had realized the Silver Bloodline reacted to suffering wolves. Every infected northern soldier became another signal dragging against Lyra's nervous system. Another knife twisting through the continental bond-network until eventually she wouldn't be able to ignore it anymore.

Another Pulse rolled beneath her skin.

Every infected wolf downstairs howled simultaneously.

The sound hit her hard enough to blur the edges of her vision for one sharp second. Silver light flashed briefly across the balcony railing. Glass cracked somewhere behind them.

Cassian stepped forward instinctively before stopping himself halfway. The restraint looked painful now. His hands flexed once at his sides before going still again.

"Lyra."

She turned away before he could fully see her expression.

Everything was too loud.

The wolves.

The fear.

The bond-network tearing itself apart while the Silver Pulse inside her kept responding harder every hour. Somewhere beyond the mountains, Darius was sitting inside the Wastes listening to the same chaos spread exactly as he intended.

Lucien appeared moments later from the lower infirmary, silver-salve staining the cuffs of his rolled sleeves. His expression sharpened immediately the second he saw the unstable light moving beneath Lyra's skin.

"The third infirmary is full," he said flatly. "We've started converting the western halls."

Another scream rose from below.

Lucien looked toward the balcony edge briefly before returning his attention to Lyra. "You need to stop reacting to it."

"They're dying."

"And if you overload the Pulse again, half the estate may lose Alpha function permanently."

The air temperature dropped several degrees. Frost crawled briefly across the iron railing beneath Lyra's fingertips before melting again. Cassian noticed it immediately. So did Lucien.

The Silver Bloodline was becoming unstable faster than any of them anticipated.

"How many more before the medicine runs out?" Lyra asked quietly.

Lucien didn't answer immediately.

That silence mattered more than numbers.

Cassian looked away first.

Outside, thunder cracked violently enough to shake the windows. Down in the harbor below the cliffs, more northern supply wagons rolled through the gates carrying fresh infected soldiers wrapped in dark blankets. The storm swallowed the sound of weeping families arriving behind them.

Lyra watched the convoy silently.

A boy no older than sixteen stumbled from one of the wagons before collapsing into the mud while coughing black blood across the stone road. One of the southern healers immediately dropped beside him, trying to hold his shaking body upright.

The Silver Pulse reacted so hard her hands began trembling.

And suddenly she understood something with terrifying clarity.

This war would never stop escalating while she remained hidden behind armies and alliances. Darius wasn't trying to conquer territory anymore. He was pulling directly on her. Infecting wolves. Destroying pack bonds. Turning the suffering of the North into bait.

He wanted her to come willingly.

And eventually… she would.

By midnight, Lyra was gone.

No guards saw her leave the estate. No doors opened. No horses were taken from the lower stables.

Only a single silver fracture remained burned into the balcony floor where reality itself had split open long enough for the Silver Queen to walk directly into the storm.