The village ruins smoked under a heavy dawn, the air thick with the sharp stink of burned wood and the sour tang of blood. Black ash drifted down like a slow rain, coating the broken roofs and the still bodies scattered across the ground. The Nightbound, now eighteen strong under their alpha Kael, moved slow and careful, their ember red eyes glowing soft as they checked every shadow alongside the five Old Blood wolves left standing. The silence felt wrong, broken only by the crackle of dying fires and the faint groan of a wounded wolf. Ethan slumped against a charred beam, his pale silver hair matted with blood and soot, clinging to his sweat soaked forehead. The Blade of Severance shook in his weak hands, its light flickering like a dying candle, but the black wound from Varek's death magic pulsed cold, eating at his strength with every heartbeat. He breathed hard, each gasp a struggle, yet the blade's faint warmth kept him from slipping into darkness. Elara knelt beside him, her golden eyes dull with exhaustion, the long days of travel across rough lowlands and shadowed hills carved deep lines into her tired face. Her hands trembled as she pressed a wet cloth to his side, her body so worn she could barely sit up, but her heart pushed her to stay, her fear for him burning bright.
Helena worked nearby, her fingers moving fast over a pile of herbs, grinding them into a paste with a worried frown. Her voice came low, almost lost in the wind. The Veil shakes. Varek was just the start. Elara turned to her, the dream from last night flooding back, dark shapes with ember red eyes hissing in her head, their voices cold and sharp like knives. She swallowed hard, her voice shaking as she spoke. I saw more last night. Varek's not alone. Malrion's waking up north. Her words hung heavy, and Rufik limped over, his leg stiff and sore from the fight, his blunt four cornered blade dragging a faint line in the ash. His face was hard, his eyes dark with anger. Voren did this, he said, his voice rough and low, glancing hard at the Nightbound. Kael met his stare, his stance steady, his voice calm but firm. We're not your enemy. The traitor's with all of us. The tension thickened, every glance a question of who might turn against them, the air buzzing with unspoken doubt.
The packs had fallen apart after Varek's retreat, their unity shattered by loss and blame. Two Nightbound lay still in the rubble, their bodies cold and still, their ember red eyes closed forever, while one Old Blood wolf had bolted into the trees, his howl fading into a lonely echo. The Moon Sigil Banner scout stood close, his dented armor catching the weak light, his words still ringing in their ears. More generals stir. North and south. That news lit a restless fire under them, and the survivors started pulling together, their new swords, bows, arrows, and whips gleaming in the dim sun. Elara pushed to her feet, her legs wobbling like they might give out, and faced the group. We can't fight like this, split up. The Veil's calling me. I can find them. Her voice shook, but it carried a spark of hope that made Kael nod and Rufik grunt in agreement, their eyes on her with a mix of trust and worry.
They moved north by midday, the packs walking close but tense, their steps crunching on the frozen ground. Kael led the Nightbound with a quiet strength, his eyes always scanning ahead, his presence a steady force, while Rufik guarded the Old Blood's back, his limp slowing him but his grip tight on his blade. Elara stayed by Ethan, holding him up as he stumbled, her exhaustion making every step a battle against her own body. The land grew rougher, the air turning cold and sharp, biting at their skin, and she felt the Veil like a hum deep in her chest, guiding her way like a quiet voice. Her mind flashed with pictures of Malrion, a tall figure wrapped in frost, his eyes pale blue and empty, standing in ice caves with a silent threat. She told Ethan, her voice low and urgent. He's in the ice caves. We have to hurry. Ethan nodded, his face pale and drawn, the blade's pulse weak against his skin. We need the Rite, he said, his words barely a whisper, his hand clutching hers for support. To make it stronger. His voice carried a desperate edge, and Elara squeezed his hand, her own fear growing.
Night fell as they reached a narrow pass, the ice caves looming like dark mouths in a wall of mist. The cold bit deeper, their breath puffing white in the air, frosting their eyelashes, when a shadow slipped out from the group. Voren stepped forward, his face blank and unreadable, his sudden appearance making everyone freeze, hearts pounding. I followed the scout's trail, he said, his voice too smooth, too calm, like he was hiding something. The generals move fast. Rufik's growl cut through, loud and rough, his blade lifting. Liar. You started this mess. Kael raised a hand, his eyes locked on Voren, his voice steady but cold. Prove you're with us, or get out. The silence stretched, heavy with doubt, Voren's every move watched like a snake ready to strike, the tension so thick it hurt to breathe.
Then it hit, fast and fierce, shattering the quiet. Malrion came out of the caves, his frost cloak shimmering like broken glass, his pale blue eyes glowing like ice in the dark. His voice was a cold whisper, calling up ice wraiths that shimmered and lunged with sharp claws, their forms twisting in the mist. Ethan pulled the blade, its light flaring bright, but the wound made him weak, and he tripped, falling hard to the frozen ground with a cry. Kael shouted, his Nightbound firing arrows that splintered against the wraiths, the sound sharp in the night, while Rufik swung his blunt blade, its heavy thud echoing off the ice walls. Elara called the vial's fire, her hands glowing gold, and traced a shape in the air with shaking fingers, breaking Malrion's hold, the wraiths stumbling like drunk men. Helena joined her, their power a shaky shield against the cold, their breaths mixing in the air.
The fight raged on, the packs swinging their new weapons with desperate strength, swords clashing against ice, whips cracking like thunder, arrows flying wild. A wraith slashed at Ethan, its claw grazing his arm, tearing his sleeve, and he dropped the blade, crying out as he fell again, his body hitting the ground hard. Elara lunged forward, her tired legs burning, and grabbed the blade, her vision blurring with a new picture, Voren handing a sigil to a dark figure in the shadows, the truth hitting her like a fist. Voren's the traitor, she thought, her heart racing, but before she could shout, Malrion raised a hand, his wraiths pulling back, melting into mist like they'd never been. The silence crashed down again, heavier now, as the packs gathered their hurt, their breaths loud in the sudden quiet.
Ethan lay against the ice, his pale silver hair stark against the frost, his breath shallow and weak, each gasp a fight. Helena knelt by him, her hands trembling as she pressed herbs to his wounds, her face tight with worry. He needs the Rite soon, she said, her voice cracking. Elara crouched next to him, the blade in her hands, its pulse matching her racing heartbeat. Voren's the mole, she whispered, her voice full of anger and fear, her eyes darting to where he stood, watching them. Kael nodded, his face hard, his hand on his sword. We found him. The distant howl of a lost wolf echoed through the pass, a sad, lonely sound that made Elara's chest tighten, a sign the generals' war was growing, and their trust was crumbling fast.