I know where all of my packmates are. I can track Phylax and Kryptos movements as they ebb and flow to rise up against Daemos attacks. I know who is injured, who is starting to overexert themselves. I sense spikes of intent as wolves reposition within our defensive line.
Daemos probes against the eastern defenses, and all the knowledge I need comes to me instantly. “Seven attackers,” I project over the bond. “They’re going to rush us, pure force.”
Through the bond, I sense Tomison calculating the structural weakness in their assault pattern. “One Daemos wolf is lagging, the farthest south in the line. Their attack will be weak there.”
“Phylax wolves, rotate your line!” Izabel calls, sensing that the front of the line is already weakening under the Daemos attack.
Instinct snaps through me. I see it happening before anyone else does.
Years of fights in the pit have taught me that though the movements of a person’s body are important, you also always have to pay attention to where their eyes are. People look where they’re going to strike, even if their muscles are pulling in a different direction.
One of the Daemos riders on the eastern front stares up towards the north even as his contingent of wolves launches their attack. A feint.
“It’s a distraction,” I project through the bond. “Their main force is gathering for a strike from the north.”
My insight moves through the pack like electricity leaping across iron nodes. Attention turns to the north.
Where Jonah is leading another contingent of Daemos wolves.
Unease tears through me as our gazes connect. He grins, and this time it does reach his eyes—the look in them so bone-chillingly malicious that my breath catches in my throat.
Then his direwolf lunges for the Phylax pair in front of him, and I recognize who it is.
Henrey.
“Rid ourselves of any unsuitable common blood.”
All this time I was worried about what Jonah would do to me, and I missed it. He couldn’t have been more clear. He couldn’t get to me, so he’d take out the one other commoner Rawbond. And he’s attacking to kill.
“No!” The shout bursts forth from me but can’t be heard over the clashing fights escalating around the arena.
Jonah’s huge black direwolf claws Henrey’s light brown wolf across the face. The tawny wolf yelps in pain and pulls back, but Jonah’s not done. He instructs his wolf to attack again, and this time, his wolf takes a huge bite from the other wolf’s front leg, tearing flesh. Most of the wolf’s leg is suddenly a gaping wound.
Henrey’s direwolf falls forward, unable to stand on the leg any longer, and a blood-curdling howl reverberates over the arena. Even in the chaos and noise of the battle, it’s clear as day.
The sound cuts through my pack’s strategic focus like an ax cracking wood in two. My awareness of the battlefield fractures, disorientation taking me for the first time since the battle began. The Phylax on either side of Henrey are wavering now, too, their riders’ attention split between the attacking Daemos and their compromised packmate.
There’s a low chorus of responding howls as the direwolves realize what’s happening to Henrey’s pair. Pain. Confusion. Anger.
Through Nevah’s mind, I watch as Henrey’s wolf turns its massive head towards his rider, eyes wild with pain and fury. The defensive line begins to buckle immediately.
“Northern defense compromised,” Anassa’s cold voice hisses. “Adjust formation?—”
Before she can finish the command, Henrey’s wolf lunges for his own rider’s throat.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Regaining control feels impossible. The many minds connected to mine react with instinctive horror, and a torrent of thoughts carries me away like a white-water rapid river.
The northern defensive line shatters the moment Henrey’s wolf attacks him, the frontline giving way to Daemos pressure. Glimpses of the Phylax’s second line of defense surging forward reach me over pack unity, but I can’t make out the details perfectly any longer.
“What’s happening?” I ask Anassa in horror. Henrey’s wolf shouldn’t be hurting him, not at this very last point of training.
“Sometimes, extreme pain can sever the rider-direwolf bond,” she replies.
“But why isn’t Henrey’s wolf healing himself?”
She lets out a mournful growl. “The bite severed an artery. It was a fatal hit. No wolf can heal something that severe; even our magic has its bounds.”
