To heal a Rogue

JOHANN

The knocking wouldn’t stop.

I surfaced from sleep in pieces, dragged up through layers of exhaustion I hadn’t earned honestly, and by the time I actually registered the sound as something real and not simply the last dregs of a bad dream, whoever stood on the other side of my door had already knocked six or seven times.

I looked at the clock on my nightstand. Four in the morning.

"This better be fucking good," I muttered, throwing the blanket off and stalking toward the door, already composing the exact tone I intended to use on whatever unfortunate sentinel or Omega had drawn the short straw so early today.

I yanked the door open, my mouth already forming the first syllable of a complaint sharp enough to leave a mark. Only for the words to die somewhere in my throat.

"Mother?"

She stood there in the dim corridor light, and for one disorienting second I genuinely wondered if I was still asleep, if this was simply my exhausted mind conjuring her out of guilt and worry. But she was solid when I reached for her, real as could be, thinner than I remembered, her frame smaller inside her coat than it had any right to be.

I pulled her into a hug before I’d fully decided to.

"How are you even here?" I demanded against her shoulder. "What about your health? You’re supposed to be resting, not wandering around the estate at four in the morning."

She pulled back just enough to cup my face in both hands, her palms cool against my skin.

"Staying in that shack so far away wasn’t going to save me, Johann," she said. "So I decided to spend whatever days I have left being useful to you. To our cause."

I studied her face properly then, and something in her eyes caught the low light strangely. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy.

"Have you been crying," I said, already stepping back to let her inside.

"Don’t mind it."

"What do you mean, don’t mind it." I closed the door behind her, my voice climbing despite myself. "Did someone say something to you? Do I need to handle it?"

"These are tears of joy," she said, settling onto the edge of my bed like she owned the room, which, in fairness, she practically did. "I’ve been so worried about the moves we needed to make. About the rogue situation specifically. But I imagine you’ll hear soon enough that it’s been handled."

My eyes went wide. "How the fuck would you have already handled that?"

"A miracle, perhaps." Her mouth curved into something almost serene. "Perhaps the heavens have finally decided to favor us."

I frowned, dropping into the chair across from her. "You told me not long ago we were cursed by the goddess herself. Now you’re talking about heavens favoring us. Which is it?"

"Yes... Selene might stand against us," she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "But there are so many deities above this world, Johann. Perhaps one of them has finally decided to show a little kindness toward people who’ve suffered long enough."

"How exactly did you take care of the rogue," I said, leaning forward, "and are you certain none of it could be traced back to us? I can’t afford another mess. Not after everything already sitting on my plate."

"No," she said, with a certainty that settled something jittery in my chest. "It won’t trace back to either of us. I’m entirely sure of that."

"The person handling it," she continued, almost casual about it, "happens to be quite good at killing people, when he sets his mind to something."

"Who?" I asked. "Can they take out Lysander next? I’m sick of him breathing the same air as me. That bastard has some audacity."

She reached over and took my hand, her grip surprisingly firm for someone who looked like she might collapse if the wind shifted wrong.

"That wouldn’t be wise," she said. "Your father’s murder is already drawing enough scrutiny. Two assassination attempts on Lysander specifically would push suspicion directly onto our doorstep. He might even survive a third attempt, given how things have already gone." A shadow crossed her face at that, something I couldn’t quite parse. "What I actually want, right now, is to restore your legitimacy. Kill every rumor currently circulating about you. That you’re a bastard. That you had a hand in your own father’s death."

"The first part will be simple enough to disprove," she said. "Soon, Bradley will ask you to submit to a DNA test. I need you to accept it without argument. Without hesitation."

I stared at her. "Wouldn’t that be incredibly stupid? You told me yourself I’m half Lycan. That’s exactly the kind of thing a test like that would reveal."

"Sure," I continued, my voice rising with the sheer absurdity of it, "I’m father’s son by blood. But you said it plainly. I’m half Lycan too. Any competent test would expose that eventually. That has to be exactly why father decided to call me a bastard in the first place. He might have chosen to carry the truth about you as a Lycan to his grave rather than admit who he’d actually married. But he clearly thought this through carefully before he did it."

"Not entirely," my mother said, something almost amused in her tone now. "Right now, before your birthday arrives, any test you take will reveal you as a pure, royal-blooded wolf. No taint of Lycan visible at all. Not until the curse fully manifests, Johann. Until then, you have absolutely nothing to worry about." She squeezed my hand. "Which is precisely why I want Bradley to run the test now, before that changes. Once it’s done and cleared, I can begin pushing the rest of our agenda properly."

"Lysander was clearly maneuvered into this position," she continued. "There’s no possibility everyone in that court is simply swallowing his claim without question. People whisper. People doubt. This is too different and I believe that’s something we can turn entirely to our advantage."

"How?" I queried.

"Everyone holds strong opinions about this family," she said. "About what we can do, what we can undo, what the goddess herself supposedly intends through us. And Lysander has been thrust directly into the public eye through every recent disaster. A healer from the age of legend, returned to the world, and somehow connected specifically to him, out of every royal-blooded man and woman in this kingdom. Why him? An assassination attempt survived through her power alone. All of it can be shaped. Made to feel theatrical. Made to suggest he was somehow destined for that seat all along, rather than simply handed it through a dying man’s confused final wishes." Her eyes gleamed. "We only need to plant that seed carefully. I can manage that part myself."

"I promise you, son," she said, her voice softening, "you will get back everything that’s been taken from you. Every tongue that dared lash out against your name will rot from the inside out for having done so. You will get all of it. And I intend to see this curse broken before I leave this world behind."

Something in her voice cracked slightly on that last part, and I felt my own throat tighten in response.

"You know," I said, quieter now, "I’d started to lose faith. Started feeling completely powerless in all of this." I let out a short, bitter laugh. "Even Amaranthine broke things off with me."

My mother’s head snapped up, genuine shock replacing the calm composure she’d worn since walking through my door.

"What?"

"She broke it off," I said. "Apparently she’s decided to pursue Lysander instead, now that he’s sitting regent."

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