Around me, the world narrows to chant, bond, and enemy. I lose track of time. Throat goes raw, muscles shake like newborn fawns, but soul burns resolute. Carmilla’s voice cracks; I catch her before she pitches forward, bracing her with one elbow while my other arm stays on the node. She sags but keeps breathing the chant. Her eyes bleed citrine light.
The shade changes tactics. Instead of brute force, it exhales a gust of black flame. Fire passes through dome cracks, seeking flesh. I throw a whirl of were-magic, shifting partially—ribcage expands, arms lengthen with bear sinew under skin—just enough to shield Carmilla’s side from worst of the scorch. Pain flashes along my arm, fur singed instantly, but I stay between her and roaring heat. Ash swirl dims the flame, Yarrow’s dust again binding the breath before it harms runes.
Carmilla presses lips to my shoulder, murmuring a new incantation I barely understand. Runes along my burned fur pulse cool, pain recedes into manageable ember. She draws away, eyes shining gratitude, then returns to primary chant. Somehow neither of us falters entirely.
Wave after wave, the shade’s attacks turn more desperate. Each assault drains something from it; I can sense a ragged edge in the energy signature, pulses skipping like failing heartbeat. The dome, though tested, hums more stable now than earlier, fed by equal parts grief and love. Our synergy climbs to terrifying pitch—skin tingles as though spirits of wolves past circle inside us, baying a war-song. The scent of winter pines and fresh snowfall—my home ridge—fills nostrils despite lava stench. For a sliver of time I glimpse spectral forms: Yarrow standing small but proud, Elise with her healer’s satchel, elder Ruthven tipping his muzzle skyward. They line the circle, pouring silent loyalty into runes.
Tears blur vision yet I keep chanting. Carmilla sees them; she adds a refrain that lifts memory into power, weaving ghosts and crystal and living blood into one unstoppable current.
The shade shudders. Its body flickers, edges losing cohesion. One last roar rattles every stalactite overhead. Then the entity fractures into shards of violet ember, each burning a second before winking out. Silence booms so sudden I stagger again. The dome lowers gently until only faint motes drift in air. Basaltcools underfoot. The fissure in stone seals with a resonant thunk that echoes down tunnels.
A single droplet of crystal blood falls from Carmilla’s hand, spattering floor before solidifying into a jewel sliver. She sways. I move, catching her waist. The dome’s glow diminishes to ember. My wolves still guard, but their shoulders slump, tension easing. Holt exhales a curse of relief; Rowan presses forehead to crossbow stock in thanks.
I sink cross-legged with Carmilla in lap, circle humming beneath. She leans into me, breath ragged. “Is it done?” she whispers.
I close eyes, extend senses along anchor lines. The runes hum steady, no ripple of dark energy pressing back. Through the bond I glimpse distant chords—Umbramere, Feramundi—thrumming same steady pulse. “It’s sealed,” I answer, voice hoarse. “Narkarath’s shade is gone from this breach.”
Her shoulders tremble, part sob, part laughter. “Third Path held.”
“And so did you.” I brush sweat-damp hair from her brow. Crystalline veins still shimmer, but the march seems slower, stable for now. My heart lifts.
Footsteps crunch. Holt crouches just outside cooling rune lines. “Alpha, perimeter clear. Chamber integrity holding. We routed six lesser shades in tunnels but everything’s fading.”
“Good.” My voice cracks; I cough, clear throat. “Stand watches in pairs till dawn cycle. Then we exit, leave watchers to guard but not disturb anchor.” Holt nods, relief shining in salt-tracked face.
Rowan approaches next. He sets a fresh goatskin of glacier water within reach and passes strips of dried root for recouping spirits. His gaze hovers on Carmilla’s arm. “She’ll need salve soon. I’ll fetch kit.”
“Thank you.” He leaves with a grin that says everything.
The floor cools enough to feel rough grit against knees. Carmilla shifts, testing weight on wrist. She winces as cracks shift. I draw her bandaged hand up, kiss each fingertip softly. She closes eyes, breathing steady. Crystals dim again.
I remember to pour water for both of us. She sips, then tucks face into crook of my neck. Words aren’t needed for long minutes. Only drip of stalactite water, distant gurgle of magma, and heartbeat resonance humming through bond. I let tears slide once—quiet, salt lines vanishing in beard—then breathe deep, steady alpha calm settling.
Holt returns with salve. I smear cool paste over fissures. Carmilla groans low but relief follows. She lifts gaze, tired yet luminous. “Your grief… it forged something strong tonight.”
“So did your will.” I stroke her cheek. “We’re not done, but we’re whole.”
While wolves tidy gear, I rise with her, leading a slow perimeter walk of anchor ring. Each node glows faint jade; Yarrow’s ash has fused into runes, no longer separate. My chest expands with bittersweet pride. I stand before southern node, bow head. “Run swift, little hunter.”
Carmilla’s voice brushes ear. “He does.”
We turn to leave circle. My palm lingers on her lower back, guiding. The chamber seems lighter, vaulted roof now agleam with dew rather than menace. Along walls, residual sparks coalesce into tiny star-shapes, constellations blinking out one by one—final fireworks of averted cataclysm.
At entrance tunnel, Holt salutes; Rowan offers pack lantern lit with blue-whale oil. We pass into cooler passageways. Each footfall forwards a future reclaimed from ruin. Spirits of the pack pad alongside, unseen but felt. I carry no ashes now—weight replaced by quiet certainty.
Carmilla whispers, “When the world asks how we won, what will you tell them?”
I think before answering. “That grief became soil. From it, courage grew.”
She smiles, lips trembling, and squeezes my hand. Together we climb toward a dawn none of the prophecies dared promise—a dawn we just earned.
27
CARMILLA
The moment I step onto the center sigil, heat and moon-cold pour through my lungs in the same breath. Convergence peaks above the cave roof, two moons and a fractured star perfectly aligned beyond tons of rock, yet I feel their gravities tugging marrow. Lava throws copper flares across ceiling facets; they answer by glittering like distant constellations, but my attention narrows to the rune at my feet—a spiral of ash, bone dust, and emerald light that now requires my final offering.
I inhale to begin the stabilizing stanza and my throat locks. No sound. Crystal has reached the soft hollow beneath my jaw, searing tight bands around larynx. The gain looks beautiful—iridescent lattice shimmering violet and pale green—but it steals breath, steals prophecy, steals me. I clutch the collar of my tunic, fingertips scraping stone skin. Splinters break away and ping on basalt.
