But nothing about Lucien’s motivations is clear at all.
In the same breath I have that thought, pain gathers at my temples.
It’s a normal headache, at first.
Then Lucien says something, and I can’t hear him even though he’s just across the table from me.
Saela says my name, I think, and Venna dashes toward me. But they both seem far away.
It’s coming from the mental bonds—a scream that’s growing progressively louder by the second until my vision whites out and the noise and pain disconnect me from my body entirely.
Suddenly, I’m looking at the world through Siegrid’s eyes. I’m in her head somehow. There’s a swirl of fury and confusion. Despair. Hate. Suchburninghate. She’s atop her massive wolf. And she’s in severe pain.
A lance pierces her side, the shaft of it deep in her body. She’s struggling to stay astride Genicos. He’s attempting to heal her, but the wound can’t heal while the weapon is still lodged in her body.
Siegrid gives another scream of anguish and rage. All around us, Nocturnan forces are engaged in a desperate fight. Nobody can stop to help her.
She hates the pain clouding her mind.
She hates her own weakness, letting herself fall into so much danger.
But more than anything, she hates herself for failing to anticipate this.Him.
This is not a Siphon attack. In the sea of churning, struggling, and dying bodies, I see that our forces are fighting against… Phylax. They have plenty of commoner soldiers on their side as well.
Siegrid grits her teeth through the agony and orders her troops to regroup. If the defensive line falls…
Well, they’ll lose the whole front.
They’ll lose the kingdom to him.
Wind picks up, blowing smoke into Siegrid’s face. She stares through it, watching a figure emerge as the smoke clears with the wind.
Tormun, the Alpha of Phylax. He’s massive on his wolf, rippling, hefting an enormous mace that shouldn’t be possible to wield on wolfback. His arm strains under the weapon’s weight as he lifts it, his oddly dulled gaze set on Siegrid.
His wolf crushes a Strategos wolf under its weight. That mace comes down on his opponent’s skull, killing them instantly, the wolf’s rider screaming under their own mount’s corpse. Tormun is going to break through, and Siegridwill notallow that to happen.
With a shriek, sheripsthe lance from her side, the pain rushing in like wildfire. Genicos howls at the shared pain, even as he strains to heal his rider.
He’s trained for this. He’s healed her a thousand times, and he will again, she knows it.
Tormun is almost upon them. And there’s a pest at his side.
FuckingJonah.
Everything sinks into the blur of mounted battle. Siegrid’s wolf collides with Tormun’s, snapping and lashing out. Her blade deflects his first strike, and the shock wave vibrates up her arm, jarring the wound in her side and making her cry out.
She may not be physically stronger than Tormun, but she’s far more skilled. And now, Genicos’s magic is working on her; her flesh knits together, her strength returning.
Siegrid strikes out savagely, scoring a long wound across Tormun’s massive thigh. He falls back with a shout. His wolf is panting and bleeding.
Pressing her advantage, she gathers her Daemos magic andpushesit out toward Tormun with a shout. But the corruption in the pack magic hits her then—I can feel her pain and confusion as the impelling blast doubles back on her, rebounding and sending even powerful Genicos reeling.
Siegrid struggles to right herself on Genicos’s back, keeping her eyes locked on Tormun, who is closing in once more.
But then. Jonah. She wasn’t paying attention to him; she dismissed him as inconsequential.
He follows the powerful motion of his wolf’s body and brings his sword with him. It slots beneath Siegrid’s armor, and white-hot agony explodes as the steel pierces through vital organs.
