I exhale sharply, the pounding in my ears slowing as I step forward, yanking my dagger from its throat before wiping both blades clean.
Dante is still holding the boy, his expression unreadable as he watches me. A fallen carnoraxis, sliced in two, lays at his feet.
When an eerie whistle pierces the air, I whip my head around. Isaac stands atop an overturned cart, his crossbow steady as he takes aim at the beast charging toward Aila. She’s quick, dodging its initial swipe, but it’s closing in too fast. Too close. With a sharptwang, Isaac’s arrow flies true, burying itself deep in the carnoraxis’s eye socket with a sickening crunch. The creature staggers, clawing at its ruined face before it collapses to the ground, motionless.
Aila, panting, doesn’t even spare Isaac a glance as she lifts her sword and plunges it into another carnoraxis at her feet. “About damn time, Isaac.”
Isaac reloads smoothly, shaking sweat from his brow. “You’re welcome.”
Not far from them, Mylo bellows as he lifts a dying beast off its feet, shoving it back into the smoldering wreckage of a cart. The wood creaks, splinters—then the weight of the beast sends it crashing into the blaze. The fire engulfs it instantly, a shriek tearing from its throat before it finally goes silent.
Mylo turns back to the fight, his blade already swinging, already searching for another enemy. But there aren’t many left.
The larger wolves in the pack growl at the remaining carnoraxis. The monsters, sensing their dwindling numbers, begin to retreat—some limping, others scrambling into the trees, their gaunt forms swallowed by the darkness.
It’s over.
Not won, not really. Too many homes are in ruins. Too many bodies lie still in the dirt, their blood turning the soil dark. All I can think is it could have been worse.
ChApter
Five
The campfire hisses softly as I stoke the embers, pushing a half-burned log deeper into the pit with the tip of a branch. Sparks rise into the night air like startled fireflies, spiraling up toward the stars. My legs ache. My arms feel like dead weight. Every breath still tastes faintly of smoke from the burning village, and the leather of my gloves is stiff with ash.
But we made it.
Behind me, the rest of the squad moves in and out of the circle of firelight, slow and heavy-footed, exhaustion tugging at their limbs. Mylo groans as he drops onto a log beside the flames, rolling his shoulder with a wince.
“Next time, maybe let the carnoraxis know we prefernotto be tackled into carts of splintered wood,” he mutters. He winces as he rubs at a forming bruise on his collarbone.
Aila, already seated, snorts and leans back on her palms. “Next time, maybe try ducking.”
“You’re hilarious,” he deadpans.
“Don’t encourage her,” Isaac says without looking up, carefully inspecting the fraying fletching on one of his arrows. His cheeks are stillsmudged with soot, and there’s a fresh tear in the sleeve of his tunic. Most of us have washed up using the water from the stream, but Isaac’s first priority is to check on the weapons.
“Why not?” Aila grins, unbothered despite the makeshift sling around her arm. “I’m brilliant when I’m concussed.”
Giorgi lets out a low, tired chuckle from where they’re curled up near the fire, already half-wrapped in their cloak. “We’re alive. Let’s call that a win.”
No one argues.
Dante stands a few paces beyond the light, his back half turned to the group, arms crossed as he surveys the woods. Always watching. Always still. I feel his presence even when he doesn’t speak. There’s something about the way he moves—controlled, calculated, yet wound tight, like he’s holding something inside, something he never lets loose unless he has to.
I notice, too, how often his hand drifts to his shoulder. Subtle. Subconsciously. But there’s tension in the movement. Pain he’s trying not to show.
Once the others begin settling in, blankets pulled tight and boots unlaced, I rise and walk toward him.
“You’re injured,” I say softly, stopping just beside him.
“I’ve had worse.” His voice is low, quieted by the hush of the woods.
“Hold still.” I lift my hand toward his shoulder, and though he doesn’t move, I feel the way his body stills completely as my fingers find the fabric of his shirt. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t stop me, either.
I press my palm against the wounded muscle.
Warmth gathers in my chest, then flows outward, through my arm, through my fingertips. Magic, gentle and steady. I feel it rush into him, mending what I cannot see. It’s subtle, like weaving golden thread through torn seams.
