Chapter 2

Chapter 2 FLORA I found the young fighter shaking near the eastern tents. His hands wouldn't stop trembling, his eyes wide and glassy, his breath coming too fast. Classic signs. I'd seen it a hundred times by now, but it never got easier to watch. I knelt beside him and pressed my palms gently against his shoulders, letting my gift flow into him, slow and steady, like water calming a storm. "You're okay," I murmured. "Just breathe. I've got you." His shoulders started to loosen under my hands. That was when I heard the voice behind me. "Well, well," Eric said. "Look what the camp dragged in." My hands went still on Tobias's shoulders, and my whole body braced itself for whatever was coming next. "I really don't get it," Eric said. I didn't need to turn around to know it was him. I'd know that voice anywhere, grating and full of himself, always dripping with something close to disgust when he talked about my work. "All this humming and hand-holding. It's a waste of time. Soothing doesn't make a warrior hit harder or move faster. And let's be honest—Panic Disorder is a weak man's disease. If they've got it, they don't belong out there." My hands froze on the fighter's shoulders. Heat flared in my chest, sharp and hot, spreading up my throat until my ears burned with it. I knew Eric was the pack's most dangerous Gamma. I knew his name alone made enemy packs nervous, that grown warriors flinched when he raised his voice. But none of that gave him the right to talk like this, not in front of a boy who was one bad breath away from his own heart giving out. Warriors bled. Warriors broke. They weren't made of stone, no matter how strong they looked standing at attention with their swords strapped to their backs. I finished calming Tobias enough that his breathing steadied, patted his shoulder, and told him to rest before he moved out. Then I stood. Eric was closer than I expected. His shadow fell over me completely, blocking out the morning light. He smelled like leather and steel, like a man who was always ready for a fight, always looking for one. My pulse kicked up hard, and for one humiliating second I thought he might actually see it — see the way my heart was hammering, see that some part of me wanted to shrink back from him. I didn't let myself shrink. I tilted my chin up instead, meeting his eyes even though it cost me something to do it. "What's next, Flora?" he said, mocking, his mouth curling into that smirk I hated more than anything else about him. "You gonna rock him? Sing him a lullaby? This is a war camp, not a daycare." "Six out of every ten warriors developed Panic Disorder, Eric," I said, keeping my voice level even though my hands wanted to shake. "Do you know what happens to those six without a Soother?" His smirk didn't move, but something shifted behind his eyes. Something darker. "They die," I said. "Every one of them. Their hearts explode in their chests. Their minds break apart, and there's nothing left to put back together. No Soother means no survival. My job here is s important and we all know it. I stepped closer, close enough to see the muscle jump hard in his jaw, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him. "So mock me all you want. Mock the lullabies. Mock the hand-holding. But I'm the reason your men are still breathing long enough to swing their swords and bring victory to your pack. You will respect this profession, Gamma. Because one day it might be you on your knees, shaking too hard to hold your blade. And you'll need a Soother whether your pride =likes it or not." For a moment he didn't say anything. The silence between us went thick, dangerous, the kind of quiet that came right before something broke. His jaw worked. His fists curled at his sides, knuckles going pale. I could see it, plain as anything — he knew I was right. He knew it, and it was eating him alive that he knew it. That should have felt like winning. It didn't. "Careful," he said, low, quiet in a way that scared me more than his shouting ever could. He leaned in, just an inch, just enough that I had to fight every instinct telling me to step back. "You think because you can talk pretty about dying hearts, that puts you above me. It doesn't. I don't answer to Soothers. I don't answer to anyone who's never held a blade or bled for this pack. You want respect? Earn it the way the rest of us did." "I earn it every single day," I said, and my voice cracked on the word every, just slightly, just enough that I hated myself for it. "Every warrior I keep breathing is proof of that. Justs because I don't swing a sword, doesn't make my work any less worthless" He stepped back first. I told myself that meant I'd won. My legs didn't feel like they'd won anything. They felt like they might give out the second he looked away. "Move out!" he barked at his waiting soldiers, his voice rougher than it needed to be, cracking with some kind of emotion that he refused to namr. Then he turned and stormed past me, his shoulder knocking into mine, all coiled anger and wounded pride as I staggered backwards before I regained my footing, as I felt the sharp pain in my shoulders, hard enough to hurt, more than I expected. I stood there in the settling dust, my hands still trembling, my chest heaving like I'd been the one fighting. I told myself it was anger. Just anger. But some small, traititious part of me knew it wasn't the truth, not the whole truth and that part of me was still watching his back long after he'd disappeared into the line of soldiers, long after I should have looked away.