“Defensive formation!” Ben’s command slices through the chaos, and our strike team responds with precision gained from decades of training together.
Rhonan and Derek flank the court members, creating an evacuation corridor. Rafe moves to cover our left. Ben takes the most exposed position without hesitation—directly between Faelan and the fleeing nobles.
Always the first into danger. Always the last to protect himself.
It’s automatic, muscle memory—exactly why I chose these wolves for the mission.
Fae nobles scatter in blind panic, their ceremonial finery fluttering like frightened birds. The pristine throne room transforms into a battlefield in seconds—crystal decorations shatter under magical pressure, raining glittering shards across marble floors.
The corruption blast connects with a ward I didn’t even realize Lyanna had conjured. It holds for a precious half-second before cracking under the pressure. I feel her drawing on every ounce of power she possesses.
“He’s accessing the leylines!” she shouts, recognizing something in his attack pattern that I don’t.
More blasts follow—Faelan no longer cares about appearances or politics. He’s choosing destruction over justice, raw hatred over consequences.
Crystal walls splinter around us, fracturing like ice under pressure. The ancient magic woven through the palace architecture begins to fail as Faelan’s corruption spreads from his blast points.
Another corruption wave builds between Faelan’s hands—bigger this time, darker. No time for words. I keep my body wrapped around hers protectively, bracing for the second impact as the black magic surges forward.
Chapter 36
Callum
Pain lances through my back where the corruption connects, but I hold position, keeping Lyanna shielded. Her hands press against my spine immediately, golden-green light flaring as her healing magic works to purge the poison before it can sink deeper.
“Stay down!” I growl, but she’s already moving beneath me.
Her hands glow golden-green as she raises a proper ward this time, reinforcing my body with her healing energy. The corruption recoils from the purifying magic, hissing like water on hot metal.
Around us, the strike team moves with practiced efficiency. Ben shifts to his sandy-brown wolf form mid-stride, his tactical mind evident even as his body transforms. Bones crack andreform as he positions himself at my left flank, covering our vulnerable side.
Rafe doesn’t shift. His hands glow with what seems like centuries of accumulated magical knowledge as he throws up barriers of pure energy, deflecting the spreading corruption away from the cowering tribunal members.
“Protect the witnesses!” Derek shouts, staying human to coordinate the defensive perimeter. His tactical analysis reads the battlefield in seconds, directing fae guards to shield court members with hand signals.
Rhonan’s transformation is something else entirely. Golden light blazes through his eyes as dragon heritage surfaces. When he exhales, flames erupt—not wild and destructive, but controlled barriers of heat that burn away Faelan’s corruption before it can spread to the fleeing nobles.
Beside him, Evren adds his own dragon fire to the defense. The two dragons work in concert, their flames interweaving to create a wall of purifying heat between Faelan and the exposed court.
I shift to wolf form as another corruption blast crashes toward us. The transformation takes two seconds—Guardian training making it faster than most wolves achieve. My clothes shred as gray fur erupts across my body, claws extending as my paws hit marble with predatory silence.
Ben’s wolf mirrors my position, and I feel our pack bond strengthen in combat. Years of fighting together make our movements synchronized—I drive left, he covers right.
Faelan throws his hands forward, and the air itself warps. Reality ripples like disturbed water as shadow magic pours from his fingers.
Instead of attacking us directly, he creates constructs.
Shadowy figures tear themselves from his corruption, taking semi-solid form. They look vaguely human but wrong—facesthat shift and blur, limbs that bend at impossible angles, bodies that seem to exist partially in another dimension.
Each construct pulses with Faelan’s corruption signature—the same mark that branded Nova, the same poison that nearly killed our pack.
“You want to see my network?” Faelan’s laugh comes out wet and rattling. “Here. Face every soul I’ve ever touched.”
A dozen constructs surge forward in a coordinated wave—not hundreds, but enough. Each one carries that corruption signature, each one a weapon pulled from shadow and malice.
My wolf instincts take over. I meet the first construct head-on, jaws closing around its throat—but there’s no flesh to tear, only a cold shadow that burns like ice against my teeth. The construct dissolves under my bite but reforms seconds later, pulling itself back together from the ambient corruption in the air.
Ben flanks the next one, his military training evident even in wolf form. He doesn’t try to destroy it—he drives it back, herding it toward where Rhonan’s dragon fire burns hottest. The construct hits the flames and shrieks, actually damaged by the purifying heat.
