Ashrock shifts mid-charge. His transformation is fluid, practiced, terrifying. One moment he's a man with a blade. The next, a massive gray wolf with scars cutting through his fur like lightning strikes.
Kieran doesn't hesitate. He shifts and launches himself forward, intercepting Ashrock mid-air. They collide with a sound like thunder. Teeth. Claws. Two wolves crashing together with the full weight of fifteen years of hatred behind every strike.
They hit the ground hard. Roll. Separate. Circle.
I try to reach them. A warrior blocks my path, blade raised. I don't recognize him. Don't care. I duck under his swing, drive my shoulder into his chest. He staggers back. I move past him.
Another warrior. Then another. They keep coming. Ashrock's personal guard, trying to protect their Beta.
Through the press of bodies, I catch glimpses of the fight. Kieran's jaws snap at Ashrock's throat. Ashrock twists away, claws raking down Kieran's side. Blood flies.
Kieran lunges. Ashrock sidesteps with speed that shouldn't be possible for a wolf his size. His jaws close on Kieran's foreleg. Bone cracks. Kieran yelps, stumbles.
Ashrock doesn't give him time to recover. He slams into Kieran's injured side, driving him down. Kieran hits the ground hard.
"No!" The word tears from my throat.
Ashrock pins him. His massive weight crushes Kieran against dirt. Kieran's good legs scramble for purchase, finding nothing. Ashrock's jaws open wide, aiming for Kieran's exposed throat.
My heart stops.
Then Rhys appears.
His face is swollen from beatings, one eye nearly shut. Blood crusts his lips. But he runs—limping, stumbling, desperate.
He throws himself between them.
Ashrock's jaws close. Not on Kieran's throat. On Rhys's shoulder. Deep. Arterial. Devastating.
Blood sprays in an arc. Hot. Dark. Too much.
Rhys screams.
Ashrock releases him, shocked. Rhys collapses. His blood pools.
Kieran scrambles free, his injured leg dragging. He shifts back to human, falling to his knees beside Rhys. "Why did you—"
"Stop him." Rhys's voice is wet, bubbling. "Can't let him win."
Ashrock backs away, breathing hard. He's still in wolf form, blood dripping from his jaws. Rhys's blood.
Then he realizes.
Nightshade wolves close in from all sides. Twenty. Thirty. More. A tightening circle of teeth and fury. From the other direction, Ironvale loyalists advance. Wolves in Ironvale colors who've turned against their Beta. Who've chosen truth over tyranny.
Ashrock's remaining warriors back away. Drop weapons. Some raise hands in surrender. Others just run.
No one moves to defend him.
He shifts back to human. Bleeding from a dozen wounds. Breathing hard. But his eyes still burn with defiance.
"You think this changes anything?" He spits blood. "The Council of Alphas approved what we did to Bloodfang."
"No." I push through the circle of warriors. "They didn't."
I pull the journal from my pack. The leather cover is worn, stained with Sera's blood from when she carried it. I hold it up so everyone can see.
"This is Alpha Torrhen's private journal. His confession. In his own words." I open to the marked page. My voice carries across the silent square. "Listen."
I read aloud. Every damning word. The false provocation. The planted evidence. The premeditated massacre disguised as self-defense.
"Ashrock suggests a different approach: provoke them into attacking first. Self-defense is always justified."
Warriors on all sides listen. Some of Ashrock's own wolves look sick.
"We move at dawn. Ashrock volunteers to lead the strike personally."
I look up at him. "You murdered them. All of them. Women. Children. Elders."
Ashrock laughs. "Bloodfang is dead. You're all that's left. One traumatized girl playing warrior."
"I'm the chieftain's daughter." I step closer. "Last of my line. And you murdered my family."
"They were weak." He spits at my feet. "They deserved what they got."
Something inside me goes cold. Perfectly, absolutely cold.
He lunges.
Shifting mid-move. Human to wolf in the span of a heartbeat. Jaws opening. Aiming for my throat.
I don't shift.
I raise my blade.
Steel catches him in the vulnerable moment between forms. When bone and muscle are reforming. When the body is neither one thing nor another.
The sword slides between ribs. Finds his heart.
His weight drives him forward onto the blade. Deeper. Until the hilt presses against his chest.
He shifts back. Human again. His hands close around the blade buried in his chest. Blood wells between his fingers. Pours from his mouth.
"You—" he gurgles.
"I'm Bloodfang." I don't pull the blade out. Let him feel it. "And I don't forget."
His eyes go wide. Then empty.
He slumps forward. I step back, letting him fall. The sword pulls free with a wet sound.
Blood spreads beneath him.
I stand over him, watching. Waiting until I'm absolutely certain. Until his chest stops moving. Until his eyes stare at nothing.
Around me, fighting ceases. Warriors on all sides lower their weapons. Some kneel. Others just stand frozen, staring at Ashrock's body.
It's over.
I scan the square, searching for familiar faces among the survivors.
Isla stands near the western wall. Blood streaks her face, her arms. But she's standing, solid and strong, directing younger warriors to help the wounded. She points to injured wolves, organizes triage, and maintains order in the chaos.
Our eyes meet across the square.
She nods once. Acknowledgment. Respect.
Maybe even pride.
I turn back. Kieran kneels beside Rhys, pressing both hands against the wound in his shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers despite the pressure.
"Stay with me," Kieran says. "Healers are coming."
Rhys's eyes focus on me. He tries to speak. Blood bubbles on his lips.
I kneel on his other side. "Don't talk. Save your strength."
"Had to." His voice is barely a whisper. "Couldn't let him kill you both."
"You saved us," Kieran says. "Both of us."
"Good." Rhys's eyes start to close. "Finally did something right."
"Healers!" I scream toward the square. "Someone get healers now!"
Two healers rush forward, bags already open. They push us aside gently, examining the wound with quick, practiced movements.
"Arterial damage," one says. "We need to stop the bleeding."
"He's lost too much already," the other responds.
"Then work faster!"
They pack the wound with cloth soaked in something that smells like herbs and alcohol. Rhys's scream is weak, fading.
I stand, stepping back to give them room. Kieran rises beside me. His injured leg barely supports his weight. He leans against me, and I take his weight without thinking.
"Is he going to die?" Kieran asks quietly.
"I don't know."