The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 144

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**

**Chapter 144**

The following morning dawned with a heavy stillness, yet Magnus found himself unable to step foot in the healer’s hall.

This was no ordinary delay; it was rooted in concern for Aysel—his beloved Moonvale rose—who had succumbed to illness.

The events of the previous night had been tumultuous, a whirlwind of emotions and chaos.

Aysel had stood resolutely against the storm, her spirit unyielding as she confronted the unexpected “surprise” that Anna had orchestrated in the Shadowbane side wing.

After the turmoil, she had tirelessly scoured the fortress, determined to restore order, her heart burdened with the weight of bloodlines and political machinations.

But once she finally returned home, safe and warm, her defenses crumbled.

It was then, in the stillness of the night, that the fever crept in, rising with the dawn like an unwelcome specter.

Magnus, wrapped in a cocoon of sleep, only became aware of her distress when the warmth of her body transformed into an alarming heat, her wolf scent flickering like a candle struggling against a tide of wax.

Meanwhile, across the city, Kian—the chief healer—had barely managed to close his eyes. He had braved the stormy night to attend to Magnus, and just as he had settled into the comfort of his own bed, he was summoned once more.

His displeasure simmered like a pot on the verge of boiling over, thick enough to rouse spirits from the depths of the underworld.

As he ran through the rain-soaked streets, he muttered curses under his breath, each word laced with frustration.

But when he learned the identity of his new patient, his pace quickened, for even Kian held a fondness for Aysel.

More significantly, she was the sole individual capable of reigning in Magnus Sanchez, the most formidable Alpha to ever walk the earth, whose wolf, Rafe, feared nothing that roamed beneath the moonlit sky.

If Aysel’s vibrant, fierce spirit were to be extinguished by this fever, it would be a profound loss not just for Magnus, but for the world itself.

Fortunately, it appeared to be nothing more than a typical fever, a consequence of the storm and sheer exhaustion.

After all, she had endured the pressures of the Moonvale Pack for over a decade. Her childhood, shaped by bloodlines and harsh realities, had forged a mind far stronger than most Alphas double her age.

Her heart was expansive, resilient—not easily shaken by dark auras or the malice of humanity.

Kian hung the IV bag with a yawn that resembled a bear awakening from hibernation.

“Alright then,” he grumbled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, “let this bag do its thing. Make sure to take your meds on time. I’m commandeering your coffee table for a nap.”

He had a peculiar aversion to sleeping on beds that weren’t his own, and he dared not leave—who could predict if Magnus would call for him again in mere moments?

Without waiting for any form of consent, he stomped into the living room, leaving a silence to envelop the bedroom.

Aysel lay there, her cheeks flushed with feverish warmth, a stark contrast to her normally vibrant demeanor. Strands of damp hair clung to her face, accentuating the delicate features that made her appear softer, almost fragile.

She felt an annoying itch on her cheek but lacked the energy to lift her arm, so instead, she rubbed her face against the pillow like a restless cub seeking comfort.

The once fiery Moonvale rose now appeared small and heartbreakingly vulnerable.

Magnus stood beside the bed, his gaze fixed on her, a mixture of concern and protectiveness etched into his features.

He gently brushed the stray locks from her forehead, his expression inscrutable, while his wolf lay low, a silent guardian beneath his skin.

Then, in a moment that felt like magic, her tiny pinky finger curled around his.

Her voice was a mere whisper, raspy yet playful, “Last night you got injections… today it’s synchronized?”

She gave his finger a playful shake, a spark of mischief shining through her fevered haze.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit too much?”

Magnus settled onto the edge of the bed, carefully pulling her into his embrace, mindful of the needle in her hand.

“That’s one kind of synchronization we definitely don’t need again,” he replied, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Aysel turned her head away, a fever-fuzzy glare aimed at him, as if to ward off his affection.

“Haven’t you heard? Kissing spreads fevers.”

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