His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 124

**Chapter 124**

**Claire’s POV**

In the wake of our meticulously crafted plan, the days began to merge into an indistinguishable blur, each one slipping seamlessly into the next, weighed down by an inexplicable heaviness. It was as if time itself had become sentient, aware of the fragile balance Elijah and I were striving to uphold. The very air around us seemed to hold its breath, cautious not to shatter the delicate peace we had managed to grasp, however fleeting it might be.

The healer’s words reverberated in my mind, a persistent echo that served as both a warning and a guide. She had cautioned us that the early stages of healing would appear deceptively simple, akin to dipping a toe into frigid waters only to find oneself swept away by the current of deeper emotions. And indeed, her words rang true. Each exercise, at first glance innocuous, became a formidable challenge when Elijah confronted it directly.

We commenced with sound. The healer utilized an old wooden disk to play a single shouted word, first at a soft volume and then at full strength. She instructed Elijah to close his eyes as she repeated the word in her own voice, mimicking Ethan’s cadence—not the fury, just the rhythm. I observed Elijah intently, noting the way he flinched at the sound during the initial attempts. Yet, by the fourth repetition, he managed to breathe through it, a small victory that felt monumental in the context of his struggle.

Next, we ventured into the realm of smell. The healer had prepared a selection of scents: iron shavings steeped in warm water, the earthy aroma of soil mingling with the faintest hint of blood from boar hunts, and rainwater from the kennels, tainted with saddle oil. She artfully arranged these on pottery lids, crafting a sequence intended to evoke memories without overwhelming him. I watched as Elijah inhaled deeply, his breaths slow and measured. Each time he hesitated, I scrutinized his hands, praying to see them steady, free from the tremors that had once plagued him.

To my immense relief, they didn’t shake. Not as much, anyway.

Each time Elijah returned from an exercise, he appeared a fraction less haunted, a little less as though the night were clawing at his chest. The progress was subtle, yet it soothed me in ways that sleep had failed to do for what felt like an eternity. Occasionally, I found myself sleeping an hour longer—just an hour—but it felt like more than a small triumph. It felt like a flicker of hope that chose to linger, refusing to be extinguished.

As Elijah’s healing journey unfolded, our investigation into the troubling events surrounding us began to unravel like a tightly woven tapestry, with seams starting to reveal themselves.

Our first significant lead emerged from a ledger. A farmhand, thin and jittery, his eyes darting around as if expecting punishment from the shadows, finally agreed to share what he knew. Elijah and I sat with him in the granary, the door ajar to ease his sense of entrapment.

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he insisted, wringing the hem of his shirt nervously, his voice trembling. “He said it was just messages. Just words. And I—I have children. They needed things.”

“What did he promise you?” Elijah asked, his voice steady and calm, projecting the authority that only someone trained to lead could achieve.

“Money. Safety. He said he’d keep the patrols away from my field.” The farmhand swallowed hard, his fear palpable. “I never saw his face clearly. But he wore gloves. Always gloves. And the coin he gave me… it had a mark. A small carving.”

When he handed over the coin, the symbol was unmistakable—one of the merchant caravan stamps, used by traders who had recently dealt with our pack’s suppliers. It wasn’t rare, but it was distinctive enough to provide us with a direction.

“A caravan merchant,” Elijah murmured as we exited, the weight of this discovery settling heavily upon us. “Someone with access to the pack’s economy, yet not part of its structure.”

“Or someone pretending to be one,” I added, my mind racing with possibilities that spiraled out like a web, each thread leading to a potential truth.

From that moment on, the investigation began to spiral rapidly, gaining momentum with each new revelation.

Elijah’s progress during his training was also becoming increasingly evident. At dusk, when the shadows in the courtyard stretched long and blue, he moved with a clarity I hadn’t witnessed since the stabbing. Each strike against the wooden cross was measured and precise, the anger within him reshaped into discipline rather than a blind force threatening to consume him. I stood nearby, feigning interest in the angle of his stance, but in reality, I was captivated by the way steadiness returned to him, piece by piece, like a puzzle slowly coming together.

A few days later, the trail of the coin mark led us to a particular merchant—a stout man whose arms bore more hair than his head. Initially, he feigned ignorance, stammering and dodging our questions, his gaze flitting nervously to the doorway as if someone might overhear our conversation.

However, his wife cracked under pressure faster than a dry branch. After dusk, she pulled me aside, her hands twisting nervously in her apron, her breath heavy with the sourness of the wine she had consumed to steady her nerves.

“I told him it would come to this,” she whispered urgently. “I told him secrets have teeth.”

“What kind of secrets?” I pressed, intrigued by the tremor in her voice.

“A man,” she replied, her voice quavering. “A masked man. He came twice—always late. Paid in cold coins. Spoke softly, like someone accustomed to being obeyed without raising his voice. He had the build of a warrior, but his accent… it was off. Slightly wrong. As if he had learned to speak like us but had never grown up within these borders.” She swallowed hard, her eyes wide with fear. “He used pack names. Names he shouldn’t have known.”

Elijah and I sifted through the merchant’s records in silence afterward—receipts, caravan logs, schedules, coin transfers. When we matched the times against the patrol routes of the kennels and the shifts of the warriors, a figure began to emerge—not fully, not clearly, but enough to realize this man had moved freely, too freely. Like a shadow seamlessly blending into the structure of our pack because no one had thought to question his presence.

The realization made the ground beneath my feet feel like shifting sand, a disquieting sensation that settled deep within me.

That tension was still alive within me when trouble arrived.

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