Wolves leap, a blur of fur and fury, claws flashing as they slam into the enemy with bone-crunching force. Snarls tear through the air, loud enough to rattle my teeth. Arrows whistle past my ear before burying themselves in throats and shoulders, each hit punctuated by a scream.
Belvedere’s vials explode on impact, glass shattering into clouds of poison flame that curl and choke, green and red smoke clawing at lungs, making the air taste like chemicals. Shadows writhe through the fog, bodies stumbling, coughing, collapsing.
Sparks rain from every direction, bright as shooting stars, magic colliding with steel in a storm of fire and shrieks.
The room is chaos incarnate, and I throw myself into it before I can think too hard because to hesitate would be committing suicide.
If I’m going to turn into a statue someday, it won’t be sitting pretty at a dinner table—it’ll be mid-strike, teeth bared, claws out, carving my name like a curse into the bastards who brought us here.
34
MARCUS
Fangs, fire, smoke, and steel collide at once. But this time, it’s our chaos. For once, we’re the ones driving the storm.
I track every moving piece. The wolves strike where I expected, Serafina’s tribe holds the line, Belvedere’s vials burst and fracture the field exactly as planned. Brutal. Bloody. Loud enough to rattle the walls. And under it all, there’s rhythm. Our rhythm.
For the first time in too long, I feel control slide back into my grip. Not luck. Not chance. Control. The battlefield bends where I press, the rhythm turning sharp, familiar, predictable. My commands land, our formation holds, and the enemy bleeds where I want them to.
It’s a dangerous feeling. Sharp. Addictive. But gods, we need it.
Steel flashes. Claws tear. Magic roars hard enough to rattle my ribs. Chaos crashes in from every side, deafening, blinding, but I push it out. My focus sharpens down to one truth. Every strike, every block, every breath.
Keep the vessel alive. Keep the witch breathing.
This fight hinges on the circle. If Serafina and the witch falls, we all fall. They kneel in the center of the ballroom,runes searing brighter with every whispered word. Light pulses through the floor like a second heartbeat. The power is thick enough to taste, sharp enough to raise the hair on my arms.
That circle is everything. Our shield. Our weapon. Our one chance.
It’s on us to hold the line, to make sure nothing breaks through. Not claw. Not fang. Not steel. If they reach the witch, it’s over. And I will burn this entire room to ash before I let that happen.
The enemy surges, a wall of snarls and steel slamming against us, but I meet them head-on. My blade cuts clean, my body moving with the precision I’ve carved into myself over centuries. Cold fury drives me. Not the kind that blinds, but the kind that sharpens everything down to razor focus. Every enemy I drop comes with a promise:You will not win. Not while I stand.
Wolves hit us from every side, fur and blood blurring together. I pivot, steel slicing the air, ribs cracking beneath my blade. It drops, and I don’t pause—I can’t—because Esmerelda is right there at my flank.
My flank. Not a weakness to shield. A weapon at my side.
She moves like she was born for this, like the fight bends around her. Every strike is merciless, every movement is a declaration. Her dagger flashes under the chandeliers, catching the light as it opens throats, precise as a surgeon, ruthless as the elements. And gods, she’s beautiful like this. Terrifying. Untouchable. Part of me wants to drag her out, shield her from the carnage. The other part can’t look away. Can’t stop drinking her in, reveling in the blaze of her fury.
We fall into rhythm without trying, like we’ve been doing this forever. My strikes clear space, hers claim it. If she stumbles, I’m there. If I falter, she’s already cut the threat down beforeit reaches me. No signals, no planning. Just instinct. A thread tying us together, tighter than training ever could.
No hesitation. No mistrust. Not anymore. Whatever stood in the way before—old grudges, sharp words, fear—it’s burned away. What’s left is raw: battle, breath, us.
And in the middle of ruin—blood, smoke, steel screaming around us—I know it with terrifying certainty: whatever this is between us, it’s stronger than the chaos. Stronger than war. Stronger than him.
The others fight just as hard. Belvedere throws a vial, glass bursting into a cloud that clings like fire and smoke, scattering a pack before they reach Minerva’s back. He doesn’t look to check. He knows it worked.
Leonard dives low, claws flashing, tendons severing a beast twice his size. The howl shakes the air, but Leonard’s already moving, the momentum carrying him forward.
Minerva’s whip cracks like thunder, leather snapping tight around a wolf’s throat mid-lunge. She yanks hard, dragging it down in one violent pull, clearing the line for the chant to continue.
It’s not flawless. No fight ever is. But every move, every strike, keeps the circle intact. That’s all that matters. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to hold.
We are a storm. Steel, claws, fire, blood. Tearing through everything reckless enough to stand in our way. The floor slick beneath our boots, the air thick with iron.
And still, it isn’t enough. For every body that drops, two more force their way through. Victory hovers, sharp on my tongue—copper and salt—but it slips through my hands like the blood I can’t hold.
Pain burns across my ribs, each breath grinding bone against bone. Beside me, Esmerelda’s sleeve is shredded, bloodstreaking down her arm. The skin knits back, but slow. Too slow. We’re fading. Slowing.
