Chapter 36
Callum
Pain lances through my back where the corruption connects, but I hold position, keeping Lyanna shielded. Her hands press against my spine immediately, golden-green light flaring as her healing magic works to purge the poison before it can sink deeper.
“Stay down!” I growl, but she’s already moving beneath me.
Her hands glow golden-green as she raises a proper ward this time, reinforcing my body with her healing energy. The corruption recoils from the purifying magic, hissing like water on hot metal.
Around us, the strike team moves with practiced efficiency. Ben shifts to his sandy-brown wolf form mid-stride, his tactical mind evident even as his body transforms. Bones crack and reform as he positions himself at my left flank, covering our vulnerable side.
Rafe doesn’t shift. His hands glow with what seems like centuries of accumulated magical knowledge as he throws up barriers of pure energy, deflecting the spreading corruption away from the cowering tribunal members.
“Protect the witnesses!” Derek shouts, staying human to coordinate the defensive perimeter. His tactical analysis reads the battlefield in seconds, directing fae guards to shield court members with hand signals.
Rhonan’s transformation is something else entirely. Golden light blazes through his eyes as dragon heritage surfaces. When he exhales, flames erupt—not wild and destructive, but controlled barriers of heat that burn away Faelan’s corruption before it can spread to the fleeing nobles.
Beside him, Evren adds his own dragon fire to the defense. The two dragons work in concert, their flames interweaving to create a wall of purifying heat between Faelan and the exposed court.
I shift to wolf form as another corruption blast crashes toward us. The transformation takes two seconds—Guardian training making it faster than most wolves achieve. My clothes shred as gray fur erupts across my body, claws extending as my paws hit marble with predatory silence.
Ben’s wolf mirrors my position, and I feel our pack bond strengthen in combat. Years of fighting together make our movements synchronized—I drive left, he covers right.
Faelan throws his hands forward, and the air itself warps. Reality ripples like disturbed water as shadow magic pours from his fingers.
Instead of attacking us directly, he creates constructs.
Shadowy figures tear themselves from his corruption, taking semi-solid form. They look vaguely human but wrong—faces that shift and blur, limbs that bend at impossible angles, bodies that seem to exist partially in another dimension.
Each construct pulses with Faelan’s corruption signature—the same mark that branded Nova, the same poison that nearly killed our pack.
“You want to see my network?” Faelan’s laugh comes out wet and rattling. “Here. Face every soul I’ve ever touched.”
A dozen constructs surge forward in a coordinated wave—not hundreds, but enough. Each one carries that corruption signature, each one a weapon pulled from shadow and malice.
My wolf instincts take over. I meet the first construct head-on, jaws closing around its throat—but there’s no flesh to tear, only a cold shadow that burns like ice against my teeth.
The construct dissolves under my bite but reforms seconds later, pulling itself back together from the ambient corruption in the air.
Ben flanks the next one, his military training evident even in wolf form. He doesn’t try to destroy it—he drives it back, herding it toward where Rhonan’s dragon fire burns hottest. The construct hits the flames and shrieks, actually damaged by the purifying heat.
“Fireworks,” I snarl into the comm. “Herd them toward the dragons.”
“Copy.” Ben’s response is clipped, already moving. He doesn’t wait for backup, doesn’t check his flanks—just throws himself directly into the path of three constructs, drawing their attention away from fleeing nobles. Reckless. Like his own survival is an afterthought.
The comm crackles with acknowledgments from Rhonan, Evren, Derek, Rafe. We shift tactics immediately, becoming herders instead of fighters.
The throne room has become a nightmare of shadow and flame.
Crystal pillars crack under the assault, ancient fae architecture groaning as corruption eats through wards that have stood for millennia.
Somewhere behind us, a section of balcony collapses with a thunderous crash, sending screaming nobles scrambling for the exits.
Derek’s voice crackles through the comm. “Eastern corridor blocked by debris. Rerouting evacuation through the garden passage.”
“Copy,” Ben responds, not breaking stride as he drives another construct toward Rhonan’s fire.
Blood streams from a gash on his forearm, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.
Doesn’t slow down. Just keeps throwing himself between the shadows and the fleeing court members.
Evren flanks his brother, the two dragons working in perfect synchronization.
Where Rhonan’s fire burns steady and controlled, Evren’s blazes with barely contained excitement—wilder, hotter, tinged with that reckless joy he brings to everything.
Between them, they create a corridor of purifying flame that forces the constructs back.
“Callum!” Rafe shouts from across the throne room. “Three more forming at your nine!”
I spin, catching the constructs mid-materialization. They’re pulling themselves together from the ambient corruption Faelan left behind—shadows coalescing into humanoid shapes, silver knotwork blazing across their not-quite-solid forms.
My jaws close on the nearest one before it fully forms. The cold burns worse than fire, shadow-stuff freezing against my teeth and tongue. But I don’t let go. I drag the half-formed thing toward Evren’s flames, feeling it writhe and shriek in my grip.
“Incoming!” Derek’s warning comes a half-second before the blast.
I release the construct and dive, rolling under a streak of corruption that would have taken my head off. It splashes against the wall behind me, eating through crystal like acid through paper.
Faelan is burning through his reserves now—I can smell it. The rot intensifying, his physical form breaking down faster with each attack he launches. He’s killing himself to kill us.
Good. Let him.
Rafe’s magical barriers funnel them into kill zones where Rhonan and Evren incinerate them with coordinated fire breath.
But for every construct we destroy, Faelan creates two more. The throne room fills with writhing shadows, and I can see court members cowering behind overturned furniture as Derek and the fae guards struggle to maintain the defensive perimeter around them.
I shift back just long enough to grab the comm. “Evidence display—protect it!”
Ben’s already moving, putting his body between the constructs and the hovering corruption map. The display flickers but holds, Faelan’s network still visible to anyone brave enough to look.
Rafe reinforces with a shimmering barrier that makes the corruption recoil on contact. His centuries of borderland combat experience show in the efficiency of the spell—no wasted energy, every thread of magic precisely placed.
“How long can you hold that?” I ask through the comm.
“Long enough.” Rafe’s voice is strained but steady. “Worry about the constructs. I’ve got the evidence.”
Through the chaos, I catch glimpses of the court members we’re trying to protect.
The progressive faction has clustered behind an overturned banquet table, Lady Morvenna directing the younger nobles with sharp gestures.
The conservatives have scattered—some fleeing, others frozen in shock, a few actually trying to help evacuate the wounded.
Lord Theron stands alone near the tribunal platform, staring at the corruption map with an expression of devastated understanding. He’s not running. Not helping. Just ... witnessing. Watching the proof of how thoroughly he was manipulated.
Part of me wants to hate him for what he put Lyanna through. But looking at him now—broken, betrayed, grieving—I can only see another of Faelan’s victims.
But Faelan sees what we’re protecting. His eyes—now completely black with corruption—lock onto the evidence display with pure hatred burning in their depths.
“If I can’t hide the truth,” he snarls, “I’ll destroy everyone who witnessed it!”
Dark magic builds around him, wild with desperate fury. The silver knotwork patterns multiply across his skin, spreading like a disease as he channels more power than his decaying body should be able to hold. I can smell the rot intensifying, his physical form breaking down under the strain.
The corruption blast he unleashes isn’t targeted this time—it’s a wave meant to bring down the entire throne room and everyone in it.
“Barrier!” Rafe roars, his magic flaring as he throws up shields with both hands.
Rhonan and Evren exhale simultaneously, their combined dragon fire meeting Faelan’s darkness in a clash that sends shockwaves rippling through the crystal architecture. The walls scream under the pressure, hairline fractures spreading through the ancient fae craftsmanship.
I shift back to human form in the eye of the chaos, grabbing a fallen ceremonial sword from where a guard dropped it in his flight. My wolf strength remains even in human shape, Guardian training allowing me to channel enhanced power through human muscles.
Ben mirrors me, shifting back to coordinate verbally. “Derek—evacuate civilians through the eastern corridor! Rhonan, Evren—maintain that fire barrier! Rafe—“
“On it!” Rafe’s centuries of borderland combat experience shine as he weaves complex counterspells, disrupting Faelan’s corruption at its source.
But we’re being pushed back. The throne room is crumbling around us, crystal walls shattering and raining deadly shards that force us to constantly shift position.