Sera's scream behind me was a knife. She ran forward. I caught her arm.
I raised the Serpent's Fang. Fired. The wolf's head snapped sideways — the bullet entering through the eye, exiting through the opposite ear — and the body went limp, its jaws releasing, its weight falling across Lira's legs.
I knelt beside her. The wound was catastrophic — the thigh torn open, the muscle hanging in strips, the bone visible in places, the blood pumping in a rhythm that matched her heartbeat. She was losing blood faster than any tourniquet could stop.
"Forgive me, Lord," Lira whispered, and her voice was already fading, her lips white, her eyes glassy. "I am not useful. It seems I will die like this."
Her sister screamed. Sera fell to her knees beside Lira, her hands pressing against the wound, blood welling between her fingers, her tears falling onto her sister's face. "NO — LIRA — NO — STAY AWAKE — STAY—"
