“Hold on,” I rasp, my voice steady though my chest heaves. “I’ve got you.”
The woman sobs, her hands clawing at the ground, but she nods, her eyes locking on mine like they’re the only anchor she has left.
I dig deeper, calling on my wolf’s strength, my claws sinking until wood splinters, until the beam shifts, just enough. My arms tremble, my body shakes, sweat and blood mixing, but I shoveharder, harder, until the woman drags herself free, her body scraping against stone.
The beam drops with a thunderous crash, flames leaping higher. My vision swims, my breath ragged, the heat overwhelming. My knees buckle, the world spinning.
The woman crawls toward the door, coughing, sobbing. “Come!”
I try to rise, my wolf snarling inside me, but my body falters, the fire closing in, my strength slipping like water through fingers. My wolf howls, furious, refusing to die here, refusing to let this be the end.
But my arms give. My chest seizes. The fire rushes closer, the heat unbearable.
Then hands catch me.
Strong, rough, steady.
“Not today.”
Silas’s voice cuts through the roar, low, raw, alive. He lifts me as though I weigh nothing, his arms sliding under me, his chest pressed against mine, his breath ragged but sure. His fox burns beneath his skin, his scent sharp through smoke, his body trembling with effort but refusing to falter.
I cling weakly to him, my head falling against his shoulder, my eyes catching the glow of flames reflecting in his amber gaze. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pause, just charges through fire and smoke, his body shielding mine from heat, his claws tearing through debris as though it were nothing.
The world blurs, fire and stone collapsing behind us, until the cold night air hits my face, sharp and clean. Silas bursts from the fortress, carrying me into the snow, the fire roaring behind us like a beast denied its prey.
He lowers me gently, his hands lingering at my shoulders, his face inches from mine, his breath heaving, his body streakedwith soot and blood. “I told you,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Not today.”
My throat burns, my chest aches, but I find my voice, low and steady. “You saved me.”
His eyes lock on mine, fierce, unyielding. “No. You saved me. I’m just making it even.”
For a heartbeat, everything else fades—the fire, the battle, the cries of the wounded. It’s just him, his fox pressed against my wolf, our breaths mingling in the frozen night. My wolf presses forward, steady and sure, her growl low not with rage but with something older, deeper.
“Mary!”
Darius’s voice breaks the moment. He runs toward us, his chest heaving, his eyes sharp, his body streaked with blood and soot. He skids to a stop, his gaze flicking between us, his jaw tightening. But he doesn’t speak. Not yet.
Behind him, the fortress groans one final time. The walls collapse inward, the fire consuming what remains. The Syndicate’s heart burns to ash, its fortress falling silent at last.
Wolves gather, their bodies bloodied but upright, their howls rising into the night. Witches stand among them, their hands glowing faint, their power steady, no longer chained. The Brotherhood has won.
I push myself upright, my legs trembling but holding. My voice carries low, serious. “It’s done.”
Silas’s hand brushes mine, brief, steady. “It’s only the beginning.”
I look at the flames one last time, my wolf steady, my heart heavy but sure. The Syndicate is gone. But the war for what comes next is only just beginning.
28
SILAS
The war is over, but the forest still smells of blood.
We march in silence, wolves and witches and what remains of foxes moving together through the snow. The flames of the Syndicate fortress still glow behind us, a pillar of smoke smearing the sky, but we don’t look back. Some things are meant to burn. Some things should never be rebuilt.
Tessa leads us with her visions, her eyes clouded, her hands steady. Darius walks close behind her, his wolf still pacing beneath his skin, his shoulders tight with the weight of command. Mary walks at his side, her steps sure though her body carries the exhaustion of battle. My fox presses against me every time she moves too far ahead, restless, refusing distance. He knows what I won’t yet admit out loud—what she is to me.
We come to a clearing on the ridge, the trees breaking open to reveal stone half-buried in snow and moss. The Crimson Altar.
