Chapter 25
Another wolf sees what Keer has done.
Near the edge of the clearing—a young woman.
I know her—treated a gash on her arm once, and she flinched when I touched her, wouldn't look at me.
She's in wolf form now, standing over a body, bloody, panting.
She looks at Keer—naked, human, standing in front of swords—and her whole body changes.
I watch the decision move through her. The terror. The resolve.
She shifts.
Fur pulling back. Body rising. Naked, shaking, blood on her face and chest. She grabs a broken sword from the ground and holds it in front of her with both hands. Terrified.
The human near her steps back. Stares.
"Oh—oh gods—"
Then another. A young man near the center, barely out of boyhood. Shifts mid-stride, stumbles, catches himself. Ribs showing. Blood running from a cut on his shoulder. Shaking so hard he can barely stand.
The soldier across from him drops his sword. Just opens his hand and lets it fall.
More. Across the battlefield—wolves becoming people. One by one, then in clusters.
Fur to skin. Claws to hands.
A woman shifting while still standing over the human she'd been fighting, both of them freezing, staring at each other.
A boy—gods, he can't be more than sixteen—shifting in front of a soldier and just standing there, thin and naked and bleeding and terrified, and the soldier backing away with his hands up, palms out, weapon forgotten.
Where's Kestria—there.
Human form now, blood on her arm, standing next to Axan who must have shifted too because he's human and naked and has his hand on her shoulder. Holding her back or holding her up. Can't tell which. Both standing. Good.
People.
Just people.
And the humans staring at them with weapons half-lowered. A soldier near the tree line has his hand over his mouth. Two men looking at each other, looking away, looking back. Nobody moving. Nobody knowing what comes next.
A human soldier turns to a nearby bush, puking.
Weapons lowering across the line. Not all—some hands tighten, some jaws go hard, some men step forward instead of back—but enough. Enough to break whatever was holding the charge together.
The male goat bolts across the clearing—trailing a chewed-through lead, running directly between two soldiers who both stumble sideways trying to avoid him.
"HOLD YOUR POSITIONS!" Theron. Voice cutting across the clearing. "HOLD THE LINE!"
Nobody moves.
"I SAID HOLD!"
"Hold WHAT?" The young soldier near me. Almost shouting now. "They're PEOPLE!"
Bodies on the ground—wolves and humans both, some still moving, most not.
Movement from the human side.
My stomach drops.
But it's not an attack.
One soldier breaking from the line. A woman. Middle-aged. Sturdy build, hair pulled back tight. She unbuckles the belt at her hip in one motion and tosses the whole rig backward, behind her line, into the trees. Sword, sheath, the lot. Steps over where it was. Doesn't look back.
She comes forward into the open. Stops where she has a clear view of the clearing.
"Look," she says. Not loud. But her voice carries because everyone has gone quiet to hear her. "All of you. Just look."
She points.
"There. The dwelling on the left. Window."
Heads turn. Mine too.
A child's face at the window. Maybe four. Watching. Wide-eyed.
"And there. The doorway."
Another. Older. Eight, maybe. A girl with both hands gripping the doorframe.
"And the one by the fire pit."
A boy. Maybe six. A wolf in human form crouched in front of him with both arms around his shoulders. Shielding him. The wolf is bleeding from a wound in her thigh. The boy is crying.
"Children." The woman's voice cracks. "There are children here."
Nobody moves.
"And those—" She gestures wide, sweeping the whole healing station. "Those are wounded. People crying out, getting their hands held, getting their bones set. Eating. Bleeding. Surviving. Like us."
Her hand drops.
"I have three kids at home. I was told to come here and kill monsters. That was the order. That was the word." She looks at Theron now. Direct. "Monsters. Not children. Not mothers. Not the woman with the braid holding that boy's shoulders right now."
Theron's jaw works.
"Get back into the line, soldier."
"No."
"That's an order."
"I know."
Silence.
"These are aggressive creatures—" Theron's voice climbing. "They have killed our people for years—"
"Yeah." From the patchy-beard kid. "Because we keep attacking them."
Theron's head snaps to him.
"Stand DOWN, soldier."
The kid doesn't. He looks at the ground. Then at the woman. Then he does what she did—unbuckles his sword belt, throws it back behind the line. Steps clear of where it was.
He doesn't speak.
Then another. A man in his thirties, rows back. Drops his weapon. Steps forward.
Then an older man. Gray beard. Limp from an old injury. Drops his sword. Steps forward.
Then two more, almost together—a young man and a woman maybe my age—weapons hitting the dirt one after the other, the sound of metal on packed earth, again, again, again.
The line is breaking.
Theron sees it breaking.
Something in his face changes.
Not panic. Not shock. The cold thing underneath. The thing that came to my cottage with a group of men and a plan.
"Soldiers." His voice has shifted. "Listen to me carefully."
Heads turn. Everyone listening.
"By the authority of the Forest Warden and the Council of Blomstradal—and by the agreed coordination of Sarveil, Volmaris, and Rynkova—any soldier under my command who refuses this engagement is in violation of his oath."
The official voice. The Council voice.
"Such soldiers are hereby stripped of standing. Stripped of citizenship. Stripped of the protections of any settlement under coordinated authority."
Nugget squawks. Keer Jr. screeches in answer.
"If you walk forward, you do not walk back. Not into Blomstradal. Not into Sarveil, Volmaris, or Rynkova. Not into any holding that signs to the coordination after today. You will not be buried in your home soil. Your names will be struck from the rolls."
His eyes move across his men. Slow. Letting it land.
"Choose."
Nobody moves.
Then his eyes find the woman who broke ranks first.
"You've earned the front of the list, soldier."
Her face hardens.
"I figured I would, sir."
She doesn't move backward.
Movement to her left. The patchy-beard kid takes one step forward to stand beside her. Not back. Forward.
The others follow. Slower this time. But they come.
Then movement the other direction.
One soldier in the back ranks shouldering his weapon harder. Stepping back into the line. Then another. Then a small cluster, four or five together, retreating into formation. Not looking at anyone. Eyes on the ground.
Theron watches both. Counts. I can see him counting.
The ones who came forward outnumber the ones who fell back. Not by much. But by enough.
The forward soldiers don't move. They're not waiting for anything. Not negotiating. Not asking. They've already chosen.
His eyes find me. Across the clearing. Across all of it.
Hate. Pure hate.
"Form up soldiers. We're going home."
They form a loose column behind him, weapons gathered, eyes on the ground.
The torches start moving back through the trees. Smaller. Smaller.
Then gone.
The sound of boots fades.
The clearing exhales.
The whole pack, breathing out at once. The forward soldiers too—a different sound from them, lower, more cracked, people who just gave up everything they ever knew and don't know yet what they did.
My knife clatters to the ground.
We're still standing. Still alive.
The middle-aged woman is the one who turns first.
Not toward me. Toward her own group. The soldiers who chose forward.
"Alright." Her voice is rough but steady.
"We get our families. The ones who have them.
Anyone with kids, anyone with parents who can travel, anyone with a person—you go back, you get them, you bring them out before Theron's column reaches Blomstradal.
He'll get there by tomorrow night. We have until then. "
A few of them nod. The patchy-beard kid is staring at his hands.
"Anyone without ties—you stay. Help with the wounded. Help with the dead. Make yourselves useful. Don't be in the way."
More nods.
"And then—" She pauses. The first crack in her voice. "And then we figure out where we go. Together. I don't know where yet. We'll find something. Old crofts, abandoned holdings, somewhere the coordination doesn't reach. We'll figure it out."
"Where will you go?"
I hadn't meant to ask.
She turns. Looks at me across the dirt.
"I don't know. But we couldn't do it. So here we are."
"There's nowhere. If the four settlements coordinated, that's—that's all of this region. There's nothing for days in any direction that wouldn't turn you in."
She shrugs.
"You'll be sleeping in the woods. With children."
"Yup."
"In winter."
"It won't be the worst thing I've done." She doesn't smile. "But we will figure something out."
I look at Keer.
He's right there. Hand at the small of my back. Steady. Solid.
Naked.
Oh god.
Naked in front of all of them. Naked in front of the woman who has just been having a calm conversation with my mate, thoroughly, repeatedly, without once acknowledging the fact that he is conducting it WITHOUT ANY PANTS ON. Naked in front of the soldiers behind her.
Oh GOD.
Also no one else gets to look at his giant di—
STOP IT, MEL.
I scan the dirt. There. Someone's cloak by the firepit. I don't know whose. I don't care.
I lunge, snatch it up, shove it at his chest without looking up.
"Put this on."
He takes it. Doesn't move.
"Keer."
"Mm."
"You are NAKED."
"Noticed."
"In front of strangers."
"Mm."
"Please."
He wraps it around his waist. Slow.
Behind me, Axan snorts.
Keer turns to face the woman.
"Stay."
Her head comes up.
"What?"
"Stay. Here. With us." His voice is low. Hoarse. But steady. "Get your families. Bring them back. We have room. We'll figure the rest out."
She stares at him.