Wolves clashed in the moonlight, arrows flew like deadly birds, and the night became a symphony of violence that would either save us all or destroy everything we'd built. I threw myself back into the fray despite wounds that painted my golden fur crimson, fighting shoulder to shoulder with Nate and Alaric and everyone who'd chosen to stand with me when standing meant risking everything.
Calder's eyes found mine across the chaos, burning with hatred that had been fermenting for decades. Every strike he landed was personal, cruel, designed to break my spirit as much as my body. His snarls carried mockery even without words, the sound of something that had forgotten what it meant to show mercy.
But every time I faltered, Nate was there. Arrows whistling past my ear to find rogue hearts, silver tips punching through supernatural hide like it was paper. His presence was a constant reminder of what I was fighting for, what I couldn't afford to lose.
And then, like an answer to prayers I hadn't known I was praying, came the sound that changed everything. Howls rising from the forest depths—pack songs that harmonized with mine, voices I'd known since I was old enough to shift. The EvernightPack, responding to their heir's call with the kind of loyalty that transcended fear.
36
THE FOREST'S CHOSEN
NATE
Rogues and pack wolves crashed together in waves of fur and fury, the sound of their collision like thunder that never stopped rolling. Claws raked across hide, fangs sought throats, and the air filled with snarls that belonged in nightmares about the end of the world.
Jonah's wolf form darted between two massive rogues, smaller but infinitely more coordinated, using speed and pack tactics to survive against overwhelming odds. His teeth found the hamstring of one attacker, sending it stumbling long enough for Alaric to barrel into its flank with bone-crushing force.
But even Alaric was bleeding from wounds that painted his gray fur crimson. He moved with a limp that spoke of damage that would take days to heal, assuming any of us lived long enough for healing to matter.
Sienna fought like a demon possessed, her wolf weaving between enemies with deadly precision. She'd already dropped one rogue with a perfectly executed throat strike, but threemore had taken its place, circling her with the patient hunger of creatures that knew time was on their side.
At the clearing's edge, Gideon stood like a pillar of barely contained starfire, magic flowing from his hands in streams of blue-white radiance that turned winter night into something that belonged in dreams. His power wrapped around attacking rogues like living chains, silver light that burned through fur and flesh with surgical precision.
But it was beautiful too, in the way that storms were beautiful, or wildfires, or any force of nature that reminded you how small and fragile human concerns really were. The magic danced around his fingers like captured aurora, painting the earth in shades of blue and gold and silver that made everything look ethereal despite the violence.
“Behind you!” he shouted to Sienna, power lashing out to catch a rogue mid-leap, wrapping it in bonds of light that squeezed until bones cracked like breaking kindling.
The creature howled, more surprise than pain, before Gideon's magic compressed around its throat and silenced it forever. But the effort cost him, sweat beading on his forehead despite the winter cold, and I could see the toll that wielding such forces was taking on his aging body.
Another rogue charged him while his attention was elsewhere, massive form designed to overwhelm through sheer mass and momentum. Gideon spun, hands weaving patterns in the air that left trails of luminescence, and suddenly the creature was flying backward, wrapped in bonds of starlight that held it suspended three feet off the ground.
“Stay down,” he commanded, voice carrying harmonics that made reality shiver at the edges. The rogue thrashed against its bonds, foam flecking its jaws, but the magic held firm as steel cables.
Around the clearing, the battle raged with desperate intensity. Pack wolves fought with coordination born of years of training, while rogues attacked with the mindless fury of creatures that had nothing left to lose. Blood stained the ancient stones, and the air filled with sounds that belonged in hell rather than the sacred space where generations of Alphas had been crowned.
But all of it faded to background noise compared to the sight of Evan locked in mortal combat with Calder at the clearing's center.
They moved like forces of nature that couldn't coexist, golden fur and dark scarred hide blurring together as they rolled across ground that had been sacred until they baptized it with violence. Every impact sent shockwaves through the earth, every clash of claw against claw rang out like breaking bells.
Calder movements held the kind of calculated brutality that came from someone who'd learned to kill efficiently, without wasted motion or unnecessary mercy. Each strike was designed to cripple, to humiliate, to break not just bone but spirit.
But Evan fought with the desperate fury of someone protecting everything he'd ever loved, golden eyes blazing with light that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than biology. He was faster, younger, driven by needs that transcended simple survival. Love made him dangerous in ways that training never could.
It should have been enough. Would have been enough against any normal opponent.
But Calder wasn't normal. He was something else, something that had spent twenty years in the wilderness learning to be more savage than anything else that lived in the dark places between civilizations.
“Is this the Callahan heir?” Calder's voice slid through whatever psychic bond connected pack wolves, mocking andwarm and utterly wrong. “Weak, unready, hiding behind humans? You'll never carry this forest.”
The words cut deeper than claws, designed to wound pride as much as flesh. Evan roared back, launching himself forward with everything he had, but Calder twisted away from the attack and slammed him against the cliff face with enough force to crack stone.
I watched Evan hit the rock wall and felt something break inside my chest, rage and terror warring for dominance as the person I loved more than life itself struggled to get back on his feet. Blood matted his golden fur, and his movements had lost some of their fluid grace.
He was losing. We were all losing.
Around me, pack wolves fought with desperate courage against odds that should have been impossible. Jonah bled from a dozen wounds but kept fighting, his wolf smaller than the rogues but faster, more coordinated. Alaric had taken down two rogues by himself but was limping badly, favoring his left hind leg.
Dad crouched behind one of the standing stones, silver dagger clutched in white-knuckled hands while he tried to stay out of the way of creatures that could tear him apart without effort.
