Movement at the corner of my vision—Rafe engaging two corrupted wolves at once, holding them away from where the younger wolves fought. He was a blur of dark gray fur and calculated violence, every movement economical, every strike placed with surgical precision.
He caught one wolf by the throat, used his momentum to throw it into a tree hard enough to crack bark. Before it could recover, he was on it, jaws crushing windpipe, claws opening belly. Shadow and ash.
The second wolf lunged at his exposed back but Rafe had already moved, spinning with a grace that shouldn't be possible for something his size. He caught the attacking wolf mid-air, bore it to the ground, and tore its throat out in one savage motion.
More shadow. More ash.
But the cost was showing. Rafe's left front leg wasn't bearing weight properly—ligaments damaged or bones cracked. Blood streamed from a dozen wounds across his flanks and shoulders. He limped back toward the pack formation, still fighting but slower now, favoring his injuries.
A corrupted wolf saw the weakness and lunged.
Mason intercepted—bloodied, exhausted, moving on sheer stubborn will—and took the hit meant for Rafe. They went down together in a tangle of fur and fury, and I saw Mason's ribs cave under the corrupted wolf's weight, saw the way his breathing hitched and stuttered.
Rafe was there before I could move, jaws finding the corrupted wolf's spine and snapping it with a sickening crunch. Shadow. Ash. Gone.
He stood over Mason's fallen form, defensive, protective, daring anything else to come close.
The pack was bleeding. We were all bleeding.
Evan's shoulder hung wrong, muscle torn and bone visible through the wound. Nate's magic flickered and dimmed, exhaustion pulling at him like gravity. Jonah was down, Sienna limping, Alaric's right eye swollen shut from a blow I hadn't seen land.
But we were winning.
The corrupted wolves' numbers dwindled—ten to eight, eight to six, six to four. Each one we killed dissolved into shadow, but we were still standing. Still fighting. Still pack.
I caught another corrupted wolf by the throat, felt my teeth sink deep, tasted that awful chemical wrongness. It thrashed beneath me, claws raking across my already-damaged ribs, opening new wounds over old. Blood poured hot and wet down my side but I didn't let go. Couldn't let go.
I bit down harder, felt something give, and the wolf went limp.
Evan and Nate took down the next one together—Evan distracting from the front while Nate hit from behind, druid magic burning through corrupted flesh like wildfire. The wolf didn't even have time to scream before it dissolved.
Rafe, limping badly now, blood streaming from too many wounds to count, positioned himself beside Gideon and Michael. When the last two corrupted wolves made a desperate lunge for the ward-line, Rafe met them head-on despite his injuries. He caught one by the foreleg, twisted, and I heard bone snap. The wolf went down howling, and Rafe's jaws found its throat before it could recover.
Gideon's magic wrapped around the final corrupted wolf in chains of light that burned like the sun. It struggled, thrashed, tried to break free, but the chains tightened until I heard ribs crack. Then Gideon clenched his fist and the magic imploded, crushing the corrupted wolf from the inside out.
It dissolved into shadow, and suddenly the clearing was silent except for our ragged breathing and the distant sound of wind through trees.
We'd won.
But the cost was written in blood across frozen ground, in the way half the pack couldn't stand without swaying, in Jonah's unconscious form and Mason's labored breathing and the way Evan's left arm hung useless at his side.
I shifted back to human form, pain exploding through my ribs where claws had scored down to bone. My shoulder was amess of torn muscle and exposed tissue. Blood ran down my side in rivulets, pooled at my feet, and the world tilted slightly.
I locked my knees and stayed upright through sheer force of will.
“Everyone accounted for?” My voice came out rough, scraped raw.
“All here,” Sienna confirmed, and her voice was tight with pain. She pressed one hand to the gash across her shoulder, trying to slow the bleeding. “Jonah's down but breathing. Mason's got broken ribs but he's conscious.”
“Evan?” I turned to my son, took in the damage. His shoulder was destroyed, hanging at an angle that made my stomach turn. Blood sheeted down his arm, dripped from his fingers.
“I'm fine,” he lied, breathing hard. “Nate?”
“Exhausted but whole.” Nate shifted back to human, druid light still flickering weakly at his fingertips. “The magic... it takes a lot out of me.”
Rafe shifted last, and even in human form the damage was devastating. His left leg wouldn't bear weight—ankle or knee shattered, maybe both. Deep lacerations crossed his chest and shoulders, blood flowing freely from wounds that should have killed him. But he was standing, maintained that careful distance even now, not pushing for inclusion.
“Rafe,” I said quietly. “You saved Mason's life.”
