We crest the ridge just before the village, the wind howling in our ears and the scent of smoke already thick in the air. But it isn’t the fire that first catches my attention. It’s movement—fast and low—at the edge of my vision.
I snap my head to the side.
Wolves.
Dozens of them. Their lean bodies streak through the trees like shadows come to life, silent save for the thrum of their paws against the earth. They run parallel to us, matching our pace with unnerving precision. Their coats range from pale silver to deep black, and their eyes gleam gold in the moonlight.
Not one of them looks at us. Not one breaks formation. They know where they’re going.
“They’re back,” I whisper, breath clouding in front of me.
As if answering me, howls erupt into the air.
Aila turns in her saddle, eyes widening as she takes in the sight. “Gods,” she breathes. “There are more of them than last time.”
She’s right. I remember the wolves at Ivystone—how they emergedfrom the trees and fought at our side during the siege. A full pack of them had come at the time, but I feel as if the pack has tripled in size.
Something stirs deep in my chest, knowing that a bond exists between the wolves and fae. Ezra taught me about the connection during one of my lessons. And I can’t help but feel as if I’ve known, somewhere deep inside of me, that that bond had always been there.
But I still don’t know if that means they answer to me.
One of the larger wolves glances my way, its coat a burnished grey, eyes like molten gold. A quiet understanding passes between us. They know what’s coming. They’ve come to fight.
We thunder into the valley, the wolves keeping pace, and the first shouts rise through the trees.
We arrive at Robinburg to a scene that has my heart thrashing in my throat. The village is already ablaze—not from the carnoraxis, but from the villagers themselves. In their attempt to thwart the beasts, the fire has spread and grown out of control. Flames curl along the edges of thatched rooftops, licking at the night. Smoke thickens the air, causing every breath to clog my lungs. Shadows move in the chaos, figures darting, weapons flashing. And then, unnatural movement. The hulking, sinewy forms of the carnoraxis tear through the village, their emaciated bodies twisting as they lunge for their prey.
The villagers are fighting back, but they are no match for the beasts. And the tsar has made it clear that anyone who stands in the way of his hunt for third-born fae will be slain for their efforts.
One of the men lunges forward with a torch while the group with him takes cover, but the carnoraxis swipes the torch out of his grasp. The man falters, and it only take a second for the carnoraxis to rip into him with his jagged teeth.
Fuck!
A gust of wind whips past, nearly knocking me off my feet as I dismount. I spot a young girl standing in the town square, hands lifted, eyes aglow as she wrestles with the air itself. Fae. With air-wielding powers. The blast slams into a carnoraxis, forcing the creature back on its haunches, but the effort clearly costs her. Her arms tremble, her poweralready waning.
Nearby, a man throws out a burst of fire, searing the claws of another beast before it swipes at him. He ducks, but not fast enough. Its talons rake across his shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground.
They’re trying. Fighting with everything they have. But it won’t be enough.
“Move!” I snap, charging forward, my sword drawn.
My squad surges into the battle, and the wolves rush in so quickly, I can’t track their movements. Aila and Giorgi have already leapt from their saddles, blades flashing as they cut through the smoke. Isaac covers them, loosing arrows with brutal precision, the shafts sinking deep into the snarling beasts. Mylo roars as he throws himself into the fray, his sword carving a path through the carnoraxis closing in on the struggling fae girl.
An echoing scream rings out to our left.
It doesn’t come from the villagers.
Lorne stands near the edge of the skirmish, one hand raised, his fingers curved like he’s clutching invisible threads. The scream bends midair, warping and soaring toward the far end of the square. A cluster of carnoraxis jerks their heads in that direction, drawn by the illusion of fresh prey. Snarling, they veer off-course, allowing Aila to drive her blade cleanly through the exposed side of another beast’s throat.
A second sound follows—footsteps pounding across flagstones, panicked gasps—and the creatures give chase, unaware they’re pursuing nothing but smoke and sound. The moment of distraction gives us just enough time.
And then the wolves descend.
They crash into the carnoraxis from the flanks, claws tearing, jaws snapping. The beasts recoil in surprise, their unnatural shrieks echoing through the village. A black-furred wolf leaps onto the back of one of them, sinking its teeth into the creature’s spine. Another lunges beneath a carnoraxis, tearing its leg out from under it.
The tide begins to shift.
I stare for half a heartbeat, awestruck by the savagery and precisionof the wolves’ assault. They’re not just fighting. They’re coordinated. Tactical.
