Page 21

"The Trial of Unity is a test of community," Elder Victoria's voice carries across the town square, where the morning mist still clings to cobblestones slick with dew. "Since the dawn of our Pack, those who would help lead it must prove they can unite it."

I stand in the center of the gathering, feeling dozens of pairs of eyes boring into me.

The early sunlight paints everything in pale gold, but does nothing to warm the chill that has settled into my bones since yesterday's discovery.

My hand instinctively moves toward my abdomen before I catch myself, forcing it back to my side.

Victoria continues, "Luna Morgan must earn trust tokens from twelve pack members before sunset. These can only be obtained through genuine service to our community."

Twelve tokens. Twelve people must accept help from the pack pariah.

I almost laugh at the impossibility of it.

The crowd shifts, murmurs rippling through it like wind through tall grass. I catch snatches of their whispers; it’s a waste of time, I’m not even a wolf, it’s ridiculous. I try to tune it out and fail miserably.

Still, I keep my face carefully neutral, a skill honed through years of enduring exactly this kind of scrutiny.

When I dare to scan the crowd, I find Nic standing apart from the others, far back, arms crossed over his chest. Our eyes meet briefly before I look away, heart hammering.

My gut twists. It’s becoming a familiar feeling.

"You may begin," Victoria announces, striking a small bronze gong that echoes across the square.

The crowd disperses immediately, leaving me alone in the center of the square. Just as they always had.

"Well," I murmur to myself, "some things never change."

I feel a flutter of magic in my fingertips—unpredictable, potent, and definitely affected by the tiny spark of life I now harbor.

It’s been out of control since I woke. I clench my fist until the sensation subsides.

I can't afford any magical accidents today, not when I'm already facing impossible odds.

My stomach lurches suddenly, a wave of nausea rising so quickly I have to breathe deeply through my nose to suppress it. Morning sickness. Perfect timing.

"You look like you're about to be sick," Ruby appears at my elbow, her familiar presence instantly comforting.

"Just nerves," I lie.

She raises a skeptical eyebrow but doesn't push. "So, what's the plan?"

"Start with the most difficult, I suppose." I square my shoulders, already mapping a route through town in my mind. "The bakery first."

"Marjorie?" Ruby winces. "Bold choice."

I shrug. "If I can convince her, the others might seem easy by comparison."

"That's... actually pretty smart." She squeezes my arm. "I'll be around if you need me, but—"

"I know, I have to do this alone." I attempt a smile.

"Good luck," she whispers, before melting back into what remains of the crowd.

I set off toward Main Street, my boots crunching on fallen leaves.

The air smells of woodsmoke and pine, and I hear the rhythmic thunk of an axe-splitting firewood somewhere in the distance.

Silvercreek preparing for winter—a season I'd planned to spend far away from here, in my snug apartment above Herbal Haven.

Even the thought of it makes me want to cry now.

Instead of being cozy and safe there, far away, I'm walking toward Sweetbriar Bakery, steeling myself for the first real challenge of an undoubtedly hellish day.

The bell above the door chimes as I enter.

The rich scent of fresh bread and cinnamon envelops me, and for a moment, I'm sixteen again, working my first job, flour dusting my cheeks as I learn to shape dough under Marjorie's critical eye.

Back then, it only took her three months to fire me—three months to learn I had no Shift.

I still remember the day she marched me out of the door.

Behind the counter, Marjorie Swindon looks up, her lined face souring instantly when she recognizes me. Her silver hair is still pulled into the same tight bun, not a strand out of place. She hasn’t aged a day in all these years.

"We don't open for another fifteen minutes," she says, voice clipped.

"I'm not here as a customer." I keep my voice steady, though my heart is racing. "I'm here to help."

She snorts, turning back to the tray of pastries she's arranging. "Help? You've never been anything but trouble, girl."

The old hurt stings, but I push past it. "The Trial requires me to be of service to the community."

"Find someone else to bother. I don't need any half-breed witch messing up my kitchen."

I notice how she grips the edge of the counter, her knuckles white and swollen. Arthritis. I'd seen her rubbing those same joints years ago, when I worked here. They’ve always been swollen and stiff. Once upon a time, my mother might have helped her with it.

"Your arthritis looks worse," I observe quietly. "I could make you a salve that would help with the pain."

She stiffens. "I said leave.”

"It's not witchcraft,” I find myself carrying on, mouth moving without my permission. “It's herbalism. Wild yam root, ginger, and juniper berry, lavender. Simple ingredients, nothing magical."

Her eyes narrow. "And why would you help me?"

"Because I need a token," I admit honestly. "And because regardless of how you feel about me, you shouldn't be in pain."

Something shifts in her expression—not exactly softening, but perhaps a slight crack in the wall of hostility. She studies me for a long moment, then sighs heavily.

"Fine. But you'll work before you make this miracle cure. Those display cases need cleaning."

I hide my relief. "Deal."

For the next hour, I clean glass cases until they gleam while simultaneously preparing her salve at the small worktable in the back. My fingers work with practiced ease, crushing dried herbs, mixing them with beeswax and olive oil, my movements efficient from years of similar work.

Marjorie watches me with undisguised suspicion, but when I finally offer her the small jar of green-tinted salve, she takes it.

"Apply it twice daily," I instruct. "Morning and night."

She dips a finger in, sniffs cautiously, then applies a small amount to her swollen knuckles. After a moment, her eyebrows lift slightly.

"It... tingles."

"That's the juniper. It improves circulation."

She flexes her fingers experimentally. "Huh."

I wait, not wanting to push my luck by asking directly for what I need. Finally, she reaches beneath the counter and produces a small wooden disk, carved with the pack symbol and the word "Unity."

"I suppose you've earned this," she says grudgingly, placing it in my palm. "Don't expect charity from me, though, girl.”

"I wouldn't dream of it," I respond, but there's no bite to my words.

As I leave the bakery, token secured in my pocket, I feel a small surge of triumph. One down, eleven to go.

***

By midday, I've secured four more tokens.

Old Marcus Howland gave me one for clearing his overgrown herb garden and identifying three rare medicinal plants he didn't know he had.

The Thompson twins, who run the community center, awarded me a token for organizing their chaotic supply closet.

And Sarah Kinley, the pack's historian, reluctantly handed over a token after I helped her translate a page of ancient text with my (admittedly rusty) knowledge of old magic symbols.

I stand on the edge of the town green, counting the wooden disks in my palm, when a wave of dizziness washes over me.

I quickly sit on a nearby bench, closing my eyes until the sensation passes.

When I open them again, I notice a flowering weed at my feet that definitely wasn't blooming a moment ago.

My magic, reacting to the pregnancy. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself the way my mother taught me years ago. Focus, Luna. Control.

"You don't look so good."

I glance up to find James watching me, concern etched on his face. My brother always could read me too well.

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just taking a quick break."

He sits beside me, his warmth a familiar comfort. "Five tokens already? That's impressive."

"How do you know?"

He grins. "Small town. Word travels fast."

"Especially when it's about the pack's favorite outcast?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice.

James sighs. "You know, not everyone hates you, Luna."

"Could have fooled me."

"People change." He looks at me meaningfully. "Some of us learned our lesson after you left."

The unspoken apology hangs between us. James had never been my tormentor, but he hadn't always been my defender either. Perhaps he means to change that now. Perhaps I’d allow it.

"Well, seven more to go," I say, changing the subject. "Any suggestions?"

"The dining hall at the pack building is short-staffed for lunch prep. Could be an opportunity."

My stomach clenches, and not just from morning sickness. "Melissa usually helps with lunch shifts on days like these.” Days when the community gathers. Days for easy pickings.

James's expression confirms my fear. "Yeah, she does."

"Perfect." I stand, squaring my shoulders. "Might as well face the queen bee directly."

"Luna—" he starts, but I'm already walking away.

"I've got this," I call over my shoulder, not entirely sure if I'm trying to convince him or myself.

The community dining hall sits at the heart of the pack compound, a sprawling building with high ceilings and long wooden tables. Most pack members take at least one meal a day here, making it the social center of Silvercreek. It's also where I experienced some of my worst moments growing up.

I push through the swinging doors into the kitchen, immediately assaulted by the noise and heat.

Cooks and volunteers bustle around, preparing what smells like beef stew and fresh bread.

At the far end of the kitchen, directing the chaos with sharp commands, stands Melissa Blackwood, looking mildly set apart from all the chaos, observing more than working.