For exactly seventy-two hours, the Iron-Wood Manor held its collective breath.
Roxy did not wake up. Following the terrifying, pulse-stopping moment when she had lost consciousness after Tyara's birth, the entire pack had descended into a state of absolute, frantic mobilization.
Syris had practically drained his Litte lab, utilizing every ancient, master-tier healing tonic he possessed to stabilize her fading pulse.
Torian had refused to leave her side, his massive form curled around her on the bed, aggressively funneling his own Alpha body heat into her freezing skin.
But by the dawn of the second day, the panic had slowly morphed into profound, awestruck relief.
Roxy was not dying. She wasn't even sick.
Without the System's magical interface to instantly regenerate her stamina, her transmigrated, mortal body was simply doing exactly what it was biologically designed to do after undergoing a massive, catastrophic trauma: it shut down to repair itself.
