Chapter 5

The minor ripples of that night’s gathering were soon swallowed by the perpetual silence of the Old Keep. Caleb remained the same unpredictable wolf king, summoning me only when he needed me. I reminded myself that his defense of me that evening was nothing more than an act, a performance I could not afford to take seriously. One afternoon, with little else to occupy my time, I wandered once again into the labyrinthine library. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured beams on the dust-laden shelves. Most of the books here were dense texts on werewolf history, bloodlines, and ancient rituals—subjects too esoteric for me to delve into on most days. But today, something caught my eye: a black wooden box tucked away in a shadowy corner on the highest shelf. It looked ancient, its surface adorned with intricate, almost fluid runes that seemed to shift under the light. An inexplicable urge overtook me. I dragged a ladder across the floor, the sound echoing faintly in the vast room, and I climbed up carefully to retrieve the box. It wasn’t locked. Inside were several rolls of parchment, yellowed and brittle with age, made from some kind of tanned animal hide. I unrolled one of the scrolls, revealing text written in an archaic werewolf language. Fortunately, there were small annotations in modern script—likely added by a later scholar. I flipped through aimlessly until a particular term caught my attention: "Blood Pact and Catalyst." My heartbeat quickened. I leaned closer, reading every word with growing dread. The further I read, the colder my hands and feet became. "…Through the use of a healer’s unique bloodline, a blood pact may temporarily quell the frenzy of the afflicted bloodline…" "…However, this is a method that just solve one problem with another. The life force of the healer will be drained alongside their healing powers, nourishing the frenzied bloodline…" "…At first, the frenzy will subside, appearing as though cured. Yet the healer’s strength is finite, and when their life force is exhausted, the pact will turn on itself, unleashing a frenzy a hundredfold. Neither the host nor the healer will survive…" "…The pact will last only until the healer’s life force is completely depleted." The truth of the contract. Those cold, unfeeling words pierced my heart like a poisoned dagger. So that’s it… That’s what this is. I wasn’t a "partner," not even a long-term "catalyst." I was a disposable tool, destined to be consumed until there was nothing left of me. Caleb’s so-called three-year contract was nothing but a lie. My ultimate fate was to be drained dry, discarded like refuse, or worse—dragged down with him. A tidal wave of terror and fury engulfed me. My hands trembled so violently I could barely hold onto the scroll. I had believed that sacrificing three years of my freedom and dignity would save my brother’s life. But in truth, I had signed my own death warrant. I was trading my life for his. Caleb… Did he know? He must have known. He had to. He had watched me with cold eyes, letting me foolishly take solace in Benjamin’s recovery, all the while knowing I was walking toward my own demise. My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the cold, hard floor. The scroll slipped from my hands, landing with a dull thud. Tears streamed down my face, not out of sorrow, but from the sheer magnitude of my rage and the despair of betrayal. The foreboding words from the ancient text echoed in my mind like a death knell. I had to escape. Immediately. Before I was entirely consumed, I had to leave this accursed place.