Tension visibly tightens Brunkil’s neck, the increasing speed of his heartbeat, and the drag of air into his lungs telling me he’s about to attack.
As he launches himself toward me, I break into a run, sprinting around the gray wolf and leaping upward, gaining air before I crash down into Brunkil’s path, my bonded swords directed toward his neck.
In that airborne moment, I’m aware of Nara running toward Thyra, as I expected. Meanwhile, the gray wolf gnashes at Lilis, keeping my general down and out of the fight. Also as I expected.
But something I didn’t anticipate…
With a shriek that echoes through my hearing, the white crow lifts into the air, the rapid extension of its wings beating furiously against the snowy backdrop. The fleeing creature is a distraction I can’t afford.
My bonded swords slice toward Brunkil’s throat as I refocus on him, my frost power raging through the blades, an explosion of ice cutting across the neckline of what is suddenly?—
An empty fur coat.
As I drop toward the ground, a savage beast flies from beneath the collapsing material.
Another gray wolf, larger than the first, this one’s fur matted, scars crisscrossing its back and face, ascends toward me, lashing with claws already bloodied.
With a midair twist, my downward plunge becomes a somersault, an effortless spin carrying me over the wolf’s head, clear of danger.
I land at a crouch, facing the beast across the discarded fur, a hiss on my lips. “Shapeshifter.”
I’m not as surprised as I otherwise might be. Whispers have circulated through Frost for years about the true nature of the Northern predators.
The scrolls in the temple that lay out Serulian history and have taught me about the Oracles also warn of fae who can change their shape at will. Always into an animal whose heart matches their own. But I was skeptical.
When Lilis came to me last night—before I raced into the bloodlands—she told me that Northerners had been seen at the southern edge of the wilds. What I’m now certain she didn’t mention was that wolves had been seen with them.
Maybe she didn’t realize the connection. Probably, she dismissed those reports. But it’s also possible that the omission was deliberate.
The shapeshifter skids to a stop, teeth bared as he swings back to me and, in a flash, transforms into his fae form again.
He is now a crouched mass of muscles, scars, and matted hair, continuing to snarl through teeth that remain sharp.
In an instant, I map the sound of his growls within my mind, registering the caliber and tone, patterns in his pitch that reveal more to me than his words ever could.
Warning me of his fury.
He is mindless with anger. Dangerously so.
Whatever logic I first applied to him, I must banish it because his snarls tell me that before me crouches a foe who does not follow a reasoned path, but rather invites chaos.
Worse, my Lethian power won’t work onhim. Even if I thought I could use it openly, my songs have no impact on the ears of wolves.
These realizations come too late, because Brunkil has already lured me away from both Thyra and Lilis. And I fucking fell for it.
I launch myself into a run as he bellows, “Fable! Now!”
I expect the smaller wolf to maul Lilis first, but it immediately leaps at Thyra.
Nara is already there. She jumps into the little wolf’s path, her claws extended, but just as she would disembowel the smaller creature, it changes shape, transforming into fae form.
A woman with scars across her back. Matted ashen-black hair. Thin. And once again, impossibly fast.
The woman twists midair just as I did before, her lithe form sailing with astonishing precision through the narrow gap between Nara’s head and paws, clearing the danger before she hits the ground and leaps again.
This time straight at Thyra, who?—
Fuck!
