The pack needs to be able to protect each other once I act. If I have to leave them, I need to know that they’ll be in a strong enough position to fight off three other packs. To fight off assholes like Jonah, who gave up on getting to me and is currently trying to thin out the Kryptos ranks.
Once I’ve positioned each pair exactly where they need to be, I unleash my emotions. A pulse of anger and protectiveness and faith floods from me. A few of them briefly turn to look at me before refocusing on the battle, on the act.
“Whatever happens next,” I project to all of them, “hold this formation. Keep our pack alive.”
Their minds erupt. Instantly, their emotion floods back to me. It’s blinding. Overwhelming. They trust my leadership, even without understanding my plan. I’ve kept them safe, and now they’ll fight until their last to defend the unity between us.
My eyes sting with tears that I don’t have time to shed.
Anassa’s muscles bunch beneath me as she lowers herself. She asks only once. “Are you certain?”
I respond with rage. It washes through Anassa, through my pack. She lets out a terrifying howl, the furious, threatening sound of it carrying my fury clear across the arena. An instant later, other Strategos wolves join in, our voices singing wrath in total unity.
I sink my hand into Anassa’s fur. “For Saela. For all of them.”
Anassa turns, her massive claws scraping as she gains momentum. I lean down, securing my grip on her fur and bracing my body. She snarls, and we’re in the air. The jump is impossible. It would be for anyone but her.
Powerful muscles propel us upward. We slice through the air, a streak of silver death like the cut of a blade. Anassa lands with a menacing thud on the king’s platform, looming over his throne.
Guards scramble towards us down the steps, but they’re too slow.
I’ve already slid from Anassa’s back, blade ready.
King Cyril Valtiere rises to his feet, but there’s no fear in his expression. I see only mild surprise. Then, worse,amusement, like he still thinks this is all a game when I’m already anticipating the way his blood is going to spill.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I have no patience for his insidious lies. I lift my leg and kick, aiming my blow precisely. My boot impacts his wrist with bone-cracking strength, and he shouts, dropping the glittering wolf-pommel sword from his grip.
The sword clatters to the stone at his feet. I know I only have seconds, but an instinct takes my body over.
I lunge for the sword, something thrumming in my blood ordering me to take it up in place of my own. I need it in my hand. I need to watch his blood spill over the bite of its sharp edge, leaking scarlet over silver.
The instant I take it up,power.
Ancient, overwhelming magic sears my veins. It swallows up my entire body, vibrating through my legs and arms, nearly making me lose my grip. My heart screams in my chest. It’s like I’m breathing in lightning, like the barest nudge could lead it to rip through my pores and sear the entire arena.
The sword is alive in my grip, humming with energy that reaches for me. The metal warms in my palm as though it’s fusing to my skin, responding to me, clamoring for my attention.
Above me, Anassa whips forward, biting a guard’s head clean from his shoulders. When I look up at the king slowly, his amusement falters. His left foot shifts backward, only slightly.
His hand raises—perhaps to signal guards, perhaps to attempt to defend himself—but I’m already moving. I hadn’trealized the arena had gone silent until my voice carries in powerful echoes across the space.
“This is for Saela,” I snarl.
The blade is an extension of my arm, a deadly part of me. My own silver claws. It whizzes through the air, faster than I’ve ever seen a weapon move. The world goes still as its edge connects with his neck. I see it. That first split of his skin. It burns into my eyes painfully.
Blood splashes across my arm. An arterial spurt catches me in the face.
His life splatters over my chest, sinking into my clothes, and across the stone. Across the throne. Across the blade.
The king’s light blue eyes go still as his head gives way to its own weight. It slips from his neck and tumbles down the platform steps as his limp body collapses to the ground at my feet.
There’s a sick urge to destroy what’s left. To savage his corpse untilno onewould ever be able to recognize him. But I swallow it down and lower the blade, blood dripping from its tip.
The guards have frozen. The arena is silent. My pack pulses with unease.
I turn to Killian, and his face is ashen.
There is no relief. No triumph at his father’s downfall. He looks at me in abject horror, his eyes moving over the blood spilled across my chest, to the sword, to his father’s corpse.
