Connor's wolves are well-trained. Professional. They fight in coordinated packs, trying to separate us, to break our formation. These aren't idealistic young wolves who don't know better. These are mercenaries who understood exactly what they signed up for.
I tear into them anyway.
A brown wolf comes at me. I catch his shoulder in my teeth. Twist. Break. The shoulder joint separates with a wet pop. He collapses howling. Before he hits the ground, I'm already targeting the next threat. A black wolf circles for my hindquarters. I sense him through the storm's awareness—the rain tells me where he is, the wind carries his scent. I pivot, catch his snout in my jaws, and slam his head into the stone ground. Once. Twice. On the third impact, he stops struggling.
Because somewhere in this chaos, Connor is moving toward Eliza.
Through the press of bodies, I see Eliza fighting with silver and salt. She goes low, targeting weak points wolves don't expect from someone her size. A wolf charges—she sidesteps, drives a salt-iron nail into its throat. It convulses and drops. Another lunges. She punches a nail through its eye socket. A third circles behind her. The silver knife catches it across the belly. She holdsher ground near the hostages Connor brought—bound figures huddled against the stones, including an elderly woman.
But Connor's circling. Using his loyalists as shields, as distractions. Herding us into positions. This isn't just a battle. It's a strategy. He's moving pieces on a board I can't quite see.
Lightning strikes close enough to make my fur stand on end. But it's not my lightning. The storm is acting strangely, responding to something other than my will. The convergence point, maybe. Ancient magic bleeding into natural forces.
A massive grey wolf slams into my flank. I roll with the impact, come up snarling. It's Graeme's second, a wolf I sparred with years ago. One of the wolves who came with Graeme when he pledged loyalty. His eyes hold something I can't read. Regret, maybe. Doesn't matter.
He's attacking me.
Not all of Graeme's wolves came in good faith. Some were Connor's plants all along.
But there's no time to process it. He lunges, and I meet him with everything I have. We collide in a tangle of fur and fury. He goes for my throat. I twist, take the bite on my shoulder instead. Pain flares hot and immediate. I've had worse. I find his foreleg, clamp down, and pull. He jerks back, but I'm stronger. The bone cracks under the pressure. He tries for my ear, my face, anything to make me let go. I hold on until the bone breaks completely, then release and go for his throat.
He submits before I can kill him. Belly exposed, throat bared.
I don't kill him. Not worth it—he was Connor's tool, not Graeme's choice. But I make sure he understands the cost. My jaws close just enough to draw blood, to make him feel how close death came. He whimpers, and I throw him aside hard enough that he slides across the wet stone.
More of Graeme's pack are turning against us. Not all of them—maybe half. The other half look as shocked and horrified as weare, fighting their own packmates who were Connor's loyalists all along. Enough traitors to throw our formations into chaos. One of Elena's wolves goes down to a supposed ally's attack, her scream cutting through the battle noise.
Connor planned this. The defection was partially a trap. He had wolves infiltrate Graeme's pack, used Graeme's genuine pledge as cover to get his own people inside our guard.
Tessa's voice crackles through the radio on my collar. "Declan, some of Graeme's wolves just turned. Connor's plants. The real Northshore wolves are holding, but we've got chaos. Adjusting positions. Pulling Elena's wolves to shore up the gaps." Her voice tightens. "Connor's moving on Eliza's position."
Packmate against packmate now. The loyal Northshore wolves fighting Connor's infiltrators who pretended to pledge with Graeme. I see two wolves who fought together just minutes ago now tearing at each other, both bleeding, both crying out in betrayal.
I push forward, fighting through Connor's wolves and the traitors alike. My storm-power crackles across my fur. Lightning responds. Every strike I make is backed by thunder. A wolf tackles me from the side. Lightning forks down, not quite hitting him but close enough that the electricity arcs across his wet fur. He convulses and drops. I don't know if he's dead or stunned. Don't have time to check.
Where is Connor? Where is?—
There. At the edge of the circle, his massive wolf form circling toward where Eliza fights. He's not engaging anyone. Just moving with predatory patience, waiting for the perfect moment. His coat is pale grey, almost silver in the storm light, and there's something wrong about the way he moves.
I launch myself toward him, but Connor's second—a rust-colored wolf with scars across his face and shoulders—intercepts me. We crash together, rolling across the slick stone. He'sstrong, vicious, willing to die to give Connor time. His jaws snap at my throat. I block with my foreleg, feel teeth tear through muscle. More pain.
We grapple, neither gaining advantage. He's good. Strong enough and skilled enough to actually match me despite the difference in our power. But he's fighting for ideology. For Connor's twisted vision of the old world.
I'm fighting for Eliza.
There's no comparison.
I feint left, he follows, and I reverse direction. My teeth find his throat before he can compensate. His blood fills my mouth, hot and bitter. I don't enjoy it. Don't revel in it. But I can't afford mercy, not when Eliza's life hangs in the balance.
His body goes limp. I hold on for another few seconds to be sure, then release.
I charge toward Connor.
Too late.
He's already moving, already closing in on where Eliza stands. She sees him coming, raises Jax's silver knife in defense, her stance low and ready. But Connor doesn't engage her.
He goes for the elderly woman instead.
