Chapter 22 Wolves
Wolves
Ashwing. My mare. She’s here. She’s really here!
I slide from Brimstone’s saddle, heart thundering, and whisper her name as I move slowly toward her.
She stands near the moss-lined bank of a shallow stream, her flanks heaving, her legs trembling.
Her once-sleek coat is dusted in dirt and steaming with sweat, but I’d know her anywhere.
The deep coal-gray of her body. The dusty golden patches that curve along her sides like winged shadows.
She’s thinner, hungrier, her belly stretched tight with foal, but her bright amber eyes meet mine with recognition.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes.
“Oh, girl,” I murmur, my voice catching as I take off my vest and drape it gently across her neck. “You found your way back to me.”
Her breath shudders. She leans into my touch, making the tiniest of nickers. I didn’t know I could miss a sound so much.
A voice calls behind me, closer than I expect. “Fire! Are you alright?”
I look up to see Keiren standing at the edge of the woods, just inside the tree line. The moment he sees Ashwing, his expression shifts to something between awe and wariness.
“I’m fine,” I say, then grab her by her mane—which, as usual, is tangled with countless brambles and pieces of branches, undoubtedly collected during her trek up the mountain. Stars, how long it must’ve taken her to get here, to find me.
I quickly check her for injuries but find none, just hooves much in need of a farrier. I gently nudge her along, holding Brimstone’s reins in my other hand as the three of us make our way back toward Keiren.
We make it no more than ten paces before Ashwing lets out a long, strained groan and collapses to her knees.
“No, no, no—Come on, Ashwing, not here…” I drop to her side, cradling her head as she stretches her neck and whimpers low in her throat.
Keiren takes a half-step forward, stopping just short of the clearing. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s foaling.” I swallow hard.
Another sharp cry escapes Ashwing’s throat, and her whole body tightens. A heartbeat later, another unmistakable howl splits the silence, then another.
Wolves.
“Come on, girl!” I urge her, panic rising in my chest. “We need to move—”
Keiren’s voice slices through the air like a blade. “Leave her. Get back to the forest. Now!”
“No!” I shout, shaking my head, still crouched low beside my mare. “I’m not leaving you,” I insist, gently stroking my mare’s beautiful head.
More howls ring through the air, closer this time.
No doubt they can smell the blood and amniotic fluid from my sweet girl as she struggles to bring her baby into the world.
I can only pray that the birth is quick and that I can usher her and her foal to the safety of the tree line.
I’ll carry the foal myself if I have to.
Keiren’s voice sharpens, a thunderclap of warning. “Fire—you don’t understand. That clearing is beyond my reach. I can’t protect you out there.”
I glance toward him. He’s still standing just within the forest’s edge, fists clenched, every muscle straining as he forces himself not to cross the invisible line.
My stomach twists as Ashwing groans, and I wrap my arms around her trembling neck. “Please,” I breathe into her mane. “Just hold on. You’re strong. You’ve always been strong.”
“Fire!” Keiren snaps. “Come back. That’s an order!”
But I ignore him, moving to Ashwing’s rear as she lets out another pained whinny.
My breath catches—two tiny white legs protrude from her. Her whole body tightens with another strangled cry. I grab the foal’s legs and pull.
But the foal doesn’t budge. Its shoulders are stuck.
“No! No, come on…” I gasp, bracing myself against the blood-slick earth. By now, the ground is soaked, and Ashwing’s flanks are trembling uncontrollably.
She’s too weak to keep pushing. If I don’t pull the foal out, they’ll both die.
Another howl cuts through the trees, and this time, I see a pair of sickly yellow eyes flash through the tall grass before disappearing again. The pack is circling us, waiting for the opportune moment to charge. I need to move fast.
Brimstone spins, keeping us at his back and facing the threat with a warning cry.
I slide my hands forward, deeper, trembling. My fingers find something soft. Delicate.
Wings.
Oh, stars. The foal has wings.
I gently pinch them closed, whispering a prayer, and pull again.
This time, the foal slides free.
A white colt spills onto the mossy earth, slick and blinking, tiny wings twitching against his sides. Ashwing turns her head and begins licking him clean, a low whinny breaking from her chest like a sob of relief.
I stagger back, awe stealing my breath.
He has wings. He’s… a Pegasus.
But I don’t have time to marvel. A vicious snarl tears through the clearing, and a wolf lunges for me—only to be cut in two by the force of a blade.
Keiren. He’s come to rescue us. Beyond the boundary.
His body lurches. He clutches his chest as thick black veins explode across his skin like molten cracks in stone. Ignoring it, he swings at the next wolf, then the next.
I can only watch as at least a dozen starving wolves close in on us. Brimstone viciously kicks one that strays too close, stomping it into the ground. Another circles wide, but Aetherion bursts from the trees, silver coat flashing, driving the beast back with stomping hooves and snapping teeth.
Still bleeding and shaking, Ashwing scrambles to her feet, standing protectively over her foal, who has yet to even open his eyes.
A weight crashes into my chest. I scream.
“No!” Keiren roars as I grappled wildly, trying to keep the beast’s maw away from my face with one arm as my other hand scrambles for my dagger.
I find it, yank it free, and drive deep it into the beast’s gut.
The wolf slumps just as Keiren barrels forward. He grabs its limp body and flings it aside like it weighs nothing.
Then he reaches for me, dragging me upright. I don’t realize I’m covered in blood until he steadies me, his eyes wide with fury and something else. Something wild.
“We need to get back to the Forest,” he pants. “I don’t know how much longer I can—”
The next wolf launches through the trees. Keiren meets it mid-air, blade flashing. The second leaps at us from the side. Keiren pivots and drives steel through its ribs.
Blood. Snarls. Screams.
Shadows bend around him like armor.
I press myself against Ashwing and the foal as more wolves prowl the edge of the glade. Brimstone screams, charging into the fray. One goes flying back and doesn’t rise again. Aetherion kicks another into the stream.
And then—silence.
The last wolf collapses, and the rest flee into the trees, leaving the clearing in shocked stillness.
Ashwing breathes in slow, shallow pants. The colt lies curled at her side, his delicate wings glinting like moonlight.
Keiren’s knees give out, and he collapses with a gasp—sword slack in his grip, black veins still pulsing across his throat and chest. The raging blackness spreads over his skin like fire.
I run to him and reach to support his weight, careful not to touch his skin. His breathing is labored. Thin lines of blood trail down from his mouth and nose.
“Leave me,” he chokes out. “Take the horses and go.”
I ponder his words and glance back at Ashwing. Her foal has finally wobbled to his feet and begun nursing. If I leave Keiren, I could ride back to the keep—or perhaps even return home.
But if I do, he’ll surely die or be claimed by whatever horror the curse is inflicting on him. And as much as I long for home, for this nightmare to end, every fiber in my body refuses to leave him here to die. Not after he saved my life.
I curse under my breath and whistle for Brimstone, who turns and races over.
“Arcus!” I command, and he kneels down. With all my strength, I just barely manage to help Keiren rise enough to fling him over Brimstone’s back like a saddlebag, then hop on behind him.
“Currere!” I yell, and all four of us race for the trees, Ashwing encouraging the gangly foal along behind us.
The moment we cross the boundary, the black sickness tainting Keiren’s body recedes, and his breathing eases.
We keep riding as fast as we can manage, farther into the canopy toward the stream we crossed.
I order Brimstone to kneel, then drag Keiren from the saddle and roll him gently onto his back.
I gingerly touch the wound at his side where one of the wolves managed to bite him. I press the back of my hand against his forehead. It’s scalding to the touch; whatever magic caused the black veins has left him with a punishing fever.
I look around and see exactly what I need: meadowsweet, Filipendula ulmaria, commonly found in damp environments like stream banks and marshy areas.
It’s a powerful pain reliever and, when combined with willow bark or moonbeam root in tea, will stop infections and cure fevers—both of which he desperately needs right now.
Working as fast as I can, I gather dry twigs to build a small fire. I crush the herbs together, mashing them into a paste I use to clean his wounds, wrapping them with torn strips of my tunic.
Hours later, the fire crackles low between us, casting flickering gold across the moss and bark around us.
Keiren lies on his side, propped against a smooth stone, his breathing still uneven.
He’s been drifting in and out of consciousness for the past few hours while I press a damp cloth to his fevered skin, mixing salves between checking on the colt—Moonbeam, I’ve decided to call him—and making sure Ashwing keeps drinking from the stream.
Keiren’s eyes flutter open again, hazy but focused. His voice is rough, like it’s been dragged across gravel. “Fire… are you… alright?” he finally manages.
I nod. “Yes. The foal and the mare are fine, too.” I gesture across the fire to where Ashwing and her colt are curled together. Brimstone and Aetherion stand on either side of them like sentries.
Keiren tries to sit up.
“Don’t—” I surge forward, pushing him back with both hands. “Damn it, don’t move!”
His back hits the stone again with a terse groan.
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You stupid, reckless, highborn prick! It took me forever to get you to stop bleeding.”
His brow lifts in amusement, still as sardonic as ever, even through the pain. But I ignore him, instead reaching for the last clean strip of cloth.
The back of my tunic lifts with the motion—shorter now from all the places I’ve torn to make bandages—and the breeze cuts across my exposed spine.
I freeze as Keiren’s gaze sharpens, quickly covering my burn scar with one hand.
But it’s too late. He notices. Of course he notices. He doesn’t press me on it, though, just watches me with that unreadable intensity as I resume unwrapping his ribs and applying salve. The silence stretches taut as a bowstring between us.
Finally, he breaks it. “Did you just call me a prick?” he rasps.
I scowl and tighten the bandage just enough to make him hiss through his teeth. “You shouldn’t have crossed the boundary line.”
He scoffs faintly. “I had to save you. Again, I might add.”
I frown. “I was handling it.”
“Sure you were. Trouble follows you around like a long-lost puppy, Fire.”
“It does not!”
“Doesn’t it?” he presses, lips curving into a smirk that looks more like a grimace. “The library? The kraken? And now the direwolves.”
My head snaps up. “Direwolves?”
He nods grimly. “Cursed beasts bred in the Shadowlands. Their bite spreads rot-magic, spores of darkness that travel straight to your heart. It’s slower for someone like me. But for anyone else? It’s fatal within minutes.” His gaze lingers on mine. “So, tell me, Fire… what’s next?”
I grit my teeth. “I seem to recall all of those supposed ‘incidents’ being a direct result of your stimulating company.”
He gives a hoarse chuckle. “Why can’t you just say thank you?”
“Is that what you want?” I snap, tossing the bloodied cloth aside. “You want me to thank you?”
My voice cracks. I don’t intend it to, but something in me splinters, sharp and sudden.
“Fine,” I whisper bitterly. “Thank you, Your Highness.” I start wrapping the fresh bandage, each word punctuated by a sharp tug. “Thank you for getting yourself cursed. For kidnapping me with your dragon. For being the reason I’ll never see my sister again.”
Tighten. Pull. Breathe.
“Thank you for ensuring I’ll never grow old beside someone I love. Or bear children. Or publish a book of herbal remedies like my mother always wanted.”
He goes dead still.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I say, now breathing heavily, doing my best to choke back the tears, “for once again delaying my inevitable demise.”
The words leave me hollow, scraped bare—but lighter too, like I’ve finally exhaled after holding my breath for days, weeks, maybe even years. The tears come faster now, hot and silent.
Keiren doesn’t speak. His expression is unreadable. The fire crackles between us, casting his face in flickering gold and shadow.
Then, slowly, he lifts both hands and cups my face. His palms are warm against my cheeks, gentle and steady.
“Fire,” he says, his voice rough with an unfamiliar tenderness. “You will have all those things. And more.” His thumbs brush beneath my eyes, catching the tears before they fall. “I will throw myself in front of every danger again and again. Whatever it takes, I will make that future real for you.”
His gaze holds mine, more intense than ever.
His words land like a brand across my skin.
My breath stutters. My heart hammers. My hands are still resting on his chest, my fingers curled into the worn fabric of his shirt.
His skin is fevered beneath my touch, but I don’t pull away, and neither does he.
The air between us tightens—buzzing with things unsaid. He leans in slightly, just enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath brush my lips.
He’s going to kiss me.
No—he’s just close. Too close.
I swallow hard.
Then… he eases back a fraction. He reaches for his coat, murmuring, “You’re freezing…”
I avert my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re shivering.”
Slow and deliberate, he drapes the coat around my shoulders, the weight of it grounding rather than confining. After a pause, he opens his arms—not pulling, not insisting.
“Come here,” he says softly. An invitation.
I hesitate only a heartbeat. The day has wrung me hollow, and the cold has settled deep in my bones. I lean back into his warmth and let myself rest against his chest. Saints—he’s like a human furnace.
His arms come around me, gentle and careful, as if he’s still waiting for me to change my mind.
“Is this alright?” he asks, his voice barely above a breath.
I nod, leaning into him fully—too tired to argue, too exhausted to pretend I don’t need this. I shiver again, but not from fear or cold.
When sleep finally claims me, I don’t fight it.
For the first time in a very, very long while, I feel safe enough to let go.