(Xyrion POV)
He was leaning against the rough bark of a tree. Kayden sat to his left, weight balanced on his heels. The other two team leaders stood a few paces ahead, heads inclined, voices kept low enough not to carry.
Lysara had vanished over four hours ago.
Xyrion had already accounted for the likely outcomes. He would retrieve her later—alive, injured, or not at all. There was no benefit in rehearsing anything else.
The rustle came before the scouts broke from the brush.
“No sighting,” the first said immediately, breath controlled despite the pace. “No tracks either. But the Ashfur Wolves are moving in.”
“How many?” Xyrion asked.
“Three packs.”
Another scout stepped in beside him. “Circling.”
Silence stretched—tight, measured.
“We have minutes,” the first scout finished. “Not more.”
Xyrion didn’t move.
“Positions! Everyone—now!” Garland, G-25’s lead, was already turning.
The first wolf broke cover without sound. The rest emerged behind it, spreading like fog between the trees.
Ashfur—tall, grey-black coats dusted pale at the tips, eyes catching the light as it filtered through the canopy. The leader didn’t charge. It paced forward, slow and deliberate, head low, testing distance.
Then the forest answered.
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Shapes slid out of shadow from three directions at once. The line snapped into motion—shields locking, blades clearing sheaths, mages shifting back instinctively as the wolves closed the gap.
Xyrion moved toward the edge of the formation.
Not to lead the strike.
To watch the space where the line thinned, where pressure always tried to slip through first. Wolves didn’t break fronts. They folded them.
Steel met fur. A shield buckled. A wolf went down hard, throat opened cleanly. Another darted through the gap left behind, jaws snapping for a hamstring before a spear took it through the ribs.
The fight stayed tight. Brutal. Efficient.
Garland compensated immediately, tightening spacing by half a step, shifting weight where the pressure repeated. Xyrion let it stand, intervening only when the fold tried to turn into a tear.
And then—
Xyrion heard it.
Not the careless crash of someone running blind. Not panic tearing through brush. It was the absence that warned him—the way the forest adjusted around a moving body without announcing it.
Then she stepped out of the trees.
Lysara.
Blood darkened her sleeves and spattered her leggings, dried enough not to drip, fresh enough to stain. Her braid had come loose, strands of hair clinging to her cheek and throat. One lens of her glasses was missing.
She was breathing hard.
He watched her.
“Ashfur Wolves,” she said, voice steady despite the rise and fall of her chest. “Two more packs.”
Xyrion’s eyes sharpened. “Where?”
“They’re using the ravine to hold scent. One pack’s meant to draw you in.”
“You disappeared,” he said. His voice carried without rising, cutting through the clash of steel and snarling teeth.
She didn’t flinch.
Movement flashed behind her.
Too fast for warning.
A wolf lunged from the brush at her back, jaws wide, body already committed.
He started to move- but her hand dropped, the dagger at her hip clearing leather in a smooth, practiced arc. She stepped aside just enough to let the wolf’s momentum carry it past her, then drove the blade up beneath the jaw.
Clean.
The body collapsed at her feet, blood steaming in the cold air.
For a fraction of a second—no more—her eyes flared.
Fuchsia.
Not the soft, unstable glow he had seen before. This was brighter. Denser. Like light compressed into a blade.
Something in him went still.
He had felt that awareness before.
Lysara swayed.
Before anyone else could move, Xyrion stepped in and caught her by the arm. She was lighter than expected. Too light for the blood she wore.
Her head snapped up, startled—then stilled.
For a heartbeat, they locked eyes.
“More incoming,” Xyrion said, voice calm. Absolute. “Outer circle. Take positions.”
The line shifted immediately.
In the distance, more Ashfur Wolves howled.
