I catch the hound mid-leap.
My clawed hand closes around its neck, and the impact jars through my arm hard enough to make my bones ache. The hound twists in my grip, teeth snapping toward my face. I slam it into the stone floor with enough force to crater the frost beneath us.
The hound doesn’t die.
Its neck reforms around my grip, ice and crown-magic knitting closed faster than I can crush. Different from the sentinels—they reformed unless interrupted. These things reform while being interrupted. Tougher. More resilient.
More dangerous.
I release its neck and drive my claws through its skull instead. The crown-fire in its eyes flares, then dies. The body goes still—ice cracking, joints finally bending in normal directions as whatever animated it drains away.
One down.
The other four are already moving.
They don’t attack in sequence. They coordinate—three coming at me from the front while the fifth circles toward the blocked exit. Toward Zephyra.
No.
The word explodes through my mind. Pure, violent refusal.
I abandon the defensive position at the entrance. The three hounds in front of me can wait. They’re not the threat.
The one circling toward her is.
I intercept it mid-stride, my body crashing into its flank hard enough to send us both tumbling across the frost-slicked floor. Its maw snaps toward my shoulder. I twist, taking the bite on my forearm instead—better a limb than a throat.
Pain lances up my arm as teeth sink through leather and flesh. I ignore it. Pain’s manageable.
The thought of her dying—that’snot.
I tear the hound off my arm and break its spine over my knee. It takes three tries before the damage overwhelms its reformation. The crown-fire dims. The body stops moving.
Two down. Three remaining.
I turn back toward the entrance in time to see the remaining hounds adapt.
They’ve stopped attacking individually. Instead, they’re circling—one at the entrance, two flanking from the sides. Creating a kill box with us at the center. Their coordination is seamless, silent, and utterly without hesitation.
“Tyr.” Zephyra’s voice carries urgency without panic. “They’re herding us.”
She’s right. They’re not trying to kill us quickly. They’re positioning, probing, waiting for an opening. The kind of patient hunting that wears prey down over time.
Fuck patience.
“When I move, stay against the wall. Don’t let them flank you.”
“Tyr—”
I’m already moving.
EIGHT
TYR
The hound at the entrance sees me coming. It braces, teeth bared, crown-fire blazing in its eyes. I don’t slow down. I don’t try to dodge or maneuver or find a clever angle of attack.
I go through it.
