She stumbled, but her jaw clenched, her eyes defiant. "I'm fine. Keep fighting!"
Rage consumed Arin. His wolf surged, golden fire flooding his veins. He roared, leaping into the heart of the hunters' ranks, a storm of claws and teeth.
The pack rallied to him, their howls shaking the trees. For every wolf that fell, two hunters bled. For every torch raised, the forest answered with rain, snuffing flames in hiss and smoke.
But victory tasted of ash. Too many wolves lay still on the ground, their bodies broken. Lyra's blood stained her sleeve, her breaths shallow but steady.
When dawn broke, the hunters retreated, dragging their dead. The forest was scarred, but it stood.
And in the clearing, Arin knelt beside Lyra, his forehead pressed to hers. His voice was raw, trembling with fury and love.
"You will not fall," he whispered. "Not while I breathe. Not while I am wolf."
Her fingers brushed his cheek, weak but sure. "Then don't stop breathing."
