Two days passed in the White Den.
Two days of Lydia treating Astro's wounds with supplies the Duchess provided. Two days of watching silver blood slowly stop flowing from the terrible gash across his face. Two days of him lying in feverish half-consciousness while his body tried to heal from damage that should have killed him.
The wound left a scar. A vicious line from his ear to his jaw that would mark him forever as someone who'd fought Luna's hound and survived.
On the third morning, the Duchess returned.
"The gathering begins tonight." Her porcelain mask reflected our exhausted faces. "All survivors from the first trials will attend. It's tradition. A feast before the next wave of tests."
"Astro can't travel." Lydia's voice was firm. "He's barely conscious. Moving him could—"
"He comes or he forfeits." The Duchess's tone left no room for argument. "Luna doesn't allow exceptions. Not even for heroes who fight her hounds."
So we went.
