I crouch, pry Yarrow’s right hand open. A shard of black crystal lies inside, tip still slick with his blood. Obsidian, but not volcanic—realm-rift glass, the kind that tears between worlds condense when magic condenses too fast to cool.
I lift it. Jagged edges slice thumb; pain anchors me. The shard hums, faint and hateful.
Rowan watches, waiting for command. The rest of the pack waits for him. Chains of obedience hold even grief together.
“Prepare pyre rights,” I order, voice flat. “Cremate within the hour.”
Beta nods, rallies the pack. Wolves shift to human to wolf again, collecting dry larch from the perimeter, laying wood in a spiral around the small form. All silent. The last color drains from the sky as they work.
I stay kneeling beside Yarrow. My shadow elongates across the snow until it merges with the ward-stone, as if we share one darkness now.
“I failed you, little fang,” I whisper. The wind doesn’t answer. It carries the promise away before it can become an excuse.
Fire catches, orange tongues licking larch tips. The Beta steps back, waits for my blessing. I look once more at Yarrow’s still face—peaceful, though the skin around his mouth is stained with soot. Then I nod. Rowan drops the pitch-stick. Flame roars taller than heads in seconds.
Smoke claws skyward, heavy with cedar and heartbreak. Sparks whirl, buffeted toward the ward-stone. The ancient granite absorbs each ember, runes glowing brighter with every sacrifice offered.
When only glowing coals remain, wolves tilt heads and sing. The howl starts low, then climbs, tremolo of sorrow around a center of iron resolve. I add my voice, leader thread stitching through grief. For two minutes the valley holds only that music.
Silence falls. I step forward, hold the obsidian shard where all can see. “This was lodged in our brother.” I cradle it in both palms, careful not to slice deeper. “It came from beyond the stone. Shadows used it as anchor. We purge anchors.”
Murmurs of assent stir.
“Yet we must know who shapes such poison. The map speaks of a dragon oracle.” I hold up the half-burned sheet. Flames start again on the edges, trying to finish the job, but I snuff them with a thought—my internal well of cold air rushing out. “Tomorrow I leave to find this oracle. Rowan commands until I return.”
He straightens, face carved from birch wood. “We escort.”
“Border can’t thin further,” I counter. “Your strength stays here. If Convergence tremors continue, flee to second line, but hold the stone.”
Pack glances exchange through shadow and torch-glow. Doubt. Fear. One wolf bares teeth; another steps backward, the grief turning to survival panic. I step closer to them, scenting their uncertainty.
“I will not abandon you,” I say, softer. “I go to stitch the wound so no more cubs bleed for it. That is my word. Hold until I return.”
Their ears swivel toward the promise. Slowly, they bow—some on two legs, some on four. Rowan bows last, eyes shining.
Ceremony done, I turn, stride toward my lodge on the ridge. Smoke from the pyre trails me like a veil. My arms throb where Yarrow’s talons raked, but the cuts already seal. Outside does not hurt now; inside does.
Snow crunches under boots. Night deepens into that hush only winter mountains know—world paused, heartbeats amplified. My lodge door stands ajar—scouts must have fetched supplies earlier. I push inside, light a single lantern.
The mirrored shield above the hearth reflects me: tall, broad shoulder, muscles roped under scarred skin. Hair grown shaggy since last full moon, dotting silver at the temples I pretend not to notice. Fresh claw marks brand my cheek, crossing an older scar from the Crimson Dawn siege. Eyes? They glow amber tonight, hotter pigment than usual—wolf warning the world.
I strip coat and shirt, splash water from copper basin, watch crimson swirl as it rinses away soot and flecks of shadow tar. The cuts fade to pink, then to memory. Body resilience many envy, yet I could not spare one cub.
I dress again in thick wool, sling travel satchel over shoulder. Inside: silver-steel knives, coil of luminous thread, mountain rations, a star compass that points only to ley-stable ground. Last I slide the obsidian shard into a leather pouch, fastening the neck three times with wolf-knot. It throbs through the hide.
A knock. Rowan enters without waiting for reply—pack privilege. He carries a metal flask and a small bundle of cloth. “Thought you’d want these.”
I unwrap the cloth. Yarrow’s twig flute. His quartz pebble. And a sprig of pennywort.
“Thank you.” My voice shreds on the second word.
Rowan grasps my forearm. “Find whoever sent that thing, tear their throat.”
“I will.”
He doesn’t release. “And if the oracle is ally?”
“Then I’ll still tear throats—just different ones.” A grim smile, barely there.
