The Watch advanced behind us now, emboldened by the sudden shift. Clara fired with grim focus. I saw Seamus being hauled farther from the fight, and Eamon barking instructions at the people around him. I saw Bishop stagger, then steady himself as Tobias flanked him, taking a feral down together.
Griff raced past me, human now, eyes blazing. “You good?” he shouted.
“Better than good,” I shouted back.
Another feral charged.
Magnus intercepted it midair, jaws snapping shut with a sickening crack. Logan tore into another beside him, their movements brutal but coordinated, packs interlocking instinctively.
Within minutes—though it felt like hours—the ferals were no longer advancing.
They were dying.
The last cluster tried to break back toward the forest, but Thorne and Declan cut them off, forcing them into a narrow corridor between buildings where Elias and Sera’s wolves finished it decisively.
When the final feral fell, the night didn’t immediately go quiet.
Blood and adrenaline roared in my ears. My heart hammered against my ribcage. The wolves stood over the fallen, chests heaving, eyes scanning the tree line for threats that didn’t come. Moonlight glinted off blood-slick fur and steel.
Then, slowly, the forest stilled, leaving us with the aftermath.
Bodies littered the yard. Humans leaned on weapons or sank to their knees, shaking now that the danger had passed. Wolves shifted back to human one by one, grim-faced and exhausted.
Magnus approached Elias, blood streaked across his arms and chest. “You did good.”
“So did you. Thank you,” Elias replied.
Logan clapped Griff on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. “Next time though,” he growled, “send us an invite so we can arrive on time.”
Griff huffed.
Killian grinned, wiping blood from his cheek. “We do love making an entrance though.”
“That you do,” Griff replied.
We buried the dead at dawn.
The men took that on without discussion, wolves and humans working together, shoulders bowed, shovels biting into earth that was still cold from the night. Griff, Elias, Magnus, Logan, Bishop, Nox, Tobias, and all the other wolves worked alongside the surviving humans to dig severalrows of shallow graves at first, then deeper ones as the sun climbed and warmed the ground.
I stood at the edge of the group with Zara and Sera, watching the men move with the same coordination they’d fought with just the night before.
Corporal Rowe’s grave was marked with a piece of scrap steel bent into the shape of a cross. A woman named Maeve was laid to rest beside him. Clara knelt between the two mounds for a long time afterward, hands folded, jaw set, until Sera touched her shoulder and helped her stand.
Eamon took over the med bay and any room that would hold a table. Bandages were boiled and reused. Clean water was given out. The most life-threatening injuries were managed first, followed by less serious ones. Eamon moved like a conductor—pointing, instructing, reassuring anyone that needed it—never raising his voice, never stopping. He worked like a machine.
Zara and Sera stayed with me.
We fell into a rhythm without talking about it. Zara helped when Eamon asked. Sera cleaned wounds with a surgeon’s efficiency that surprised me until I remembered she’d probably been trained in basic human anatomy in her role with the Watch. I used my own skills to help when I could.
“You always this bossy?” Sera asked me once, elbow-deep in bandages. I’d just told her how to manage one patient because I’d seen the exact same injury before and knew how to handle it.
“Only when it matters,” I answered with a smirk.
Zara snorted. “So, always then.”
I learned a lot about the two of them during that time.
Zara talked with her hands when she was tired. She had a habit of checking the door every few minutes, not from fear but out of old habit. When she smiled, it was full and bright and lit up her entire face.
