The scent of burning herbs and rotting flesh filled the dimly lit chamber. Shadows danced wildly across the stone walls, cast by the flickering green flames of Nisaba's cauldron. The old witch hummed to herself, her fingers moving with practiced precision as she sprinkled crushed moonshade petals into the bubbling brew. The thick, inky liquid hissed as the poisonous plant dissolved into it.
A slow, delighted giggle escaped her lips.
"Silver poison," she whispered, watching the potion swirl into a deep, shimmering silver. "A fitting end for a wolf who should never have been."
Nisaba trailed her fingers through the steam rising from the cauldron, the magic pulsing under her skin. She could feel the raw potency of the mixture—wolfsbane to weaken, silver to burn, and a rare deathshade venom meant to corrupt.
If all went according to plan, Layla would survive—but just barely. Her healing gift would fight the poison, but it would lose. The wolf inside her would wither and die, her body stripped of all celestial power.
And when the Beast King came for his prize, he would find only a broken girl—one too weak to be his salvation.
"No prophecy," Nisaba murmured to herself, "no savior."
She cackled again, the sound low and rasping.
She knew Catherine and Rhys had their doubts. The Queen and her consort feared the consequences—feared the wrath of the Moon Goddess if Layla perished by their hands. But they didn't understand. Layla wouldn't die by their hands.
She would die by the Beast King's.
And if, by some miracle, things didn't go as planned?
Nisaba smirked, pulling a small, rune-etched satchel from her belt. Inside, she carried stones infused with realm-hopping magic, stolen from an ancient fae long ago.
If Catherine turned on her, if Layla somehow survived, if the prophecy began to unfold—
She would be gone before the first arrow flew.
There were other packs. Other realms. Other places where she could weave her magic into the fabric of the world, where she could begin anew, carving out a place for herself in the shadows.
The thought sent a delicious thrill down her spine.
She lifted the ladle, staring at the thick, silver-black potion. A few more ingredients, and it would be ready.
A knock on the door shattered the silence.
"Enter," she called smoothly, already knowing who it would be.
Catherine swept into the room, her emerald gown trailing behind her like a shadow. Rhys followed, his expression tight with barely concealed frustration.
"Is it done?" Catherine demanded, her eyes flickering to the cauldron.
Nisaba lifted the ladle, letting the potion drip back into the pot. "Almost."
Catherine's jaw clenched. "She's been caught. She'll be here by dawn."
Nisaba's grin widened. Perfect.
She turned, dipping a vial into the potion, watching as it filled with shimmering silver liquid.
"Then we should prepare for the celebration."
She handed the vial to Catherine, her long, bony fingers brushing against the Luna's as she did.
"By the time the Grand Ball begins, Layla will be nothing more than a fragile human."
Rhys remained silent, his expression unreadable. But Catherine—Catherine's lips curled into a victorious smile.
"Good."
She turned, her emerald eyes gleaming.
"Then let the world see just how worthless she truly is."