Chapter 2
He racked his mind for a reason—some explanation for the sudden, relentless decay of his body. Curses? Envy? Had the spirits turned their backs on him?
His thoughts were interrupted by the soft creak of the chamber doors. A slender figure entered, her steps practiced and quiet. His personal maid, Lian. She carried a porcelain bowl, steam curling from the surface of the bitter-smelling brew she brought him every night.
Her face, as always, was unreadable—eyes downcast, expression serene. She approached the bedside and knelt, holding the bowl with delicate hands.
"Your medicine, Young Master," she said gently, her voice laced with the same tenderness she had always shown him. Too gentle. Too careful.
Before San Qi could respond, another voice pierced the air.
"Ah, Lian," San Lang called smoothly as he pushed aside the veil, his chest bare and his smirk unashamed. "Still keeping up with our little plan?"
Lian froze.
San Qi's heart stuttered.
"You haven't missed a dose, I hope," San Lang added, his voice mocking as he approached her from behind, brushing a hand down her arm. "We wouldn't want our dear brother recovering too soon, would we?"
Lian flinched at his touch, but said nothing.
The silence spoke volumes.
San Qi stared at her, throat dry, mind spiraling. The bowl trembled in her hands now, the steam rising like a cruel taunt.
Poison.
It hadn't been sickness. It had been betrayal—slow, methodical, and delivered with a smile by the very hands that once tucked him in, wiped his brow, swore loyalty with bowed head and hushed devotion.
Rage flickered in his chest, raw and burning. His fingers twitched.
When the door creaked open again, San Qi shut his eyes and let his body fall limp, feigning the sleep that had long eluded him. His breaths slowed, shallow and even. He could hear her steps—light, almost reverent—as Lian moved closer.
A sigh of relief escaped her lips.
"Still asleep," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
The soft clink of glass echoed as she set the bowl aside. He sensed movement, then the subtle tug of fabric as she rolled up his sleeve. A sharp, cold sting pierced his arm—the needle sliding beneath his skin with practiced ease.
So it was true.
There was no denying it now.
His heart thundered in his chest, but outwardly, he remained still. He wanted to grab her wrist, throw her back, demand answers—but he couldn't. The paralysis wasn't complete, but his body might as well have been carved from stone. Every limb felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
Even his voice betrayed him, stuck in his throat like dried ash.
She finished the injection quickly, pressing a cloth to the puncture with almost motherly care. And then—she hesitated.
Lian brushed a strand of hair from his face.
"Forgive me, Young Master," she murmured, voice barely audible. "This is the only way… please understand."
Then she stood and turned away, vanishing into the dim corridor without another word.
San Qi's mind screamed.
There had to be more—why she was doing this, what San Lang held over her. Was it fear? Loyalty? Something darker?
But even as the poison whispered through his veins again, his fury began to root itself into something harder—cold, clear, and patient.
He couldn't move now.
But he would.
And when he did, they would all pay.
---
But even as fury coiled in his chest, San Qi knew the truth: he was too weak to hurt a fly, let alone exact revenge.
His body, once a weapon of instinct and precision, now lay useless beneath him. His fingers refused to curl. His breath was thin, shallow. Even lifting his head brought a wave of dizziness that threatened to drown him.
Revenge?
The very thought tasted bitter. What could he do—trapped in this prison of flesh, watched by traitors, fed poison by the hands that once swore to serve him?
The weight of reality settled on him like a stone slab. If he were to act, he could not do it with strength. That was gone.
But strength was not the only path.
There were other ways—quieter, sharper, slower.
He would have to become something else. Something his brother would never suspect. Something his enemies would overlook, just as they had overlooked him now.
A shadow within the shadow.
If the body would not fight, then the mind must. If he could not stand, he would listen. If he could not strike, he would plan. Every whispered conversation. Every careless smirk. Every flicker of doubt in Lian's eyes.
He would remember it all.
---
Elsewhere in the manor, laughter danced through silk-draped corridors. San Qi's fiancée—Mei Lin—lay tangled in the embrace of his brother, her smile lazy and satisfied.
She traced circles along San Lang's chest, her voice like honey laced with ambition.
"They already look to you," she purred. "It won't be long before the Elders name you Alpha. And when they do…"
She leaned in, her breath warm against his ear.
"I'll be your Luna. The first and only."
San Lang chuckled, amused by how easily she had switched her allegiance, how quickly she had abandoned the weak for the rising star.
"Of course you will," he whispered, though his eyes said otherwise. To him, Mei Lin was a tool—pretty, pliant, and perfectly placed. Her dreams of power amused him. He had no intention of sharing it.
But she didn't see the game behind his smile. In her mind, the throne was already theirs. San Qi was a fading ghost, a tragedy they would mourn publicly while feasting on his legacy.
She imagined the ceremony—the crowning, the pack bowing before them, the adoration in their eyes. Finally, she would be more than a daughter of a minor noble house. She would be Queen to the new Alpha.