The first wolf hit Brina's shield with a crack that rattled her bones. She shoved back with a grunt, teeth bared in a grin that was more snarl than smile. "Come on, then!"
Shithead barely had time to brace before another lunged at him. Its weight slammed into his shield, claws scraping wood. He staggered but held, muscles straining. He shoved forward, sword lashing out, striking the beast's flank. It yelped and fell back, snarling.
Eryk moved with calm precision. A wolf lunged; his shield angled, deflecting its jaws. His sword swept low, striking its legs. The beast yelped and stumbled away.
Calder froze as a wolf charged him, eyes wide, shield slipping. Shithead saw it in the corner of his eye — saw Calder's legs locked in fear — and threw himself sideways. His shield slammed into the wolf, knocking it aside. Calder gasped, nearly dropping his weapon.
"Move!" Shithead roared, shoving him back into line.
Calder stumbled but lifted his shield again, shaking.
Dorian struck with practiced form, blade snapping out in clean arcs. But when a second wolf lunged from the side, his polish broke. He cried out, shield flailing, barely blocking the bite. Brina slammed her shoulder into the beast, driving it back.
"Watch your flank, noble!" she barked.
Dorian's face burned, but he gave a stiff nod.
The pack circled, snarling, snapping, darting in and out. Each time one lunged, a shield caught it, a sword struck back. Yet each clash left bruises, scrapes, shallow cuts. Sweat stung their eyes. Their arms trembled.
Shithead's chest heaved, breath ragged. But he held the line.
A howl split the air. Larger shapes slunk from the shadows. Not just strays — the alpha and its closest hunters. Their eyes gleamed with cruel intelligence, hunger and fury burning bright.
"They're not done," Calder whispered, voice shaking.
"No," Eryk said simply. His sword lifted again.
The alpha lunged at Shithead. Its weight crashed into him, driving him back a step. Jaws snapped inches from his face, hot breath reeking. He shoved his shield up, teeth clenched, muscles burning. With a roar, he drove his sword into its shoulder. The beast yelped and twisted away, blood spattering the dirt.
The others pressed in. Brina roared as she swung, her shield splintering beneath a wolf's weight. Calder ducked, his sword clumsy but landing a desperate strike. Dorian fought with fury now, pride forgotten in the crush of survival.
Shithead found himself shouting, not thinking: "Hold! Shields together! Don't break!"
And for once, they listened.
Brina pressed in at his side, Dorian tightened his line, Calder clung to Eryk's steadiness. Together, they braced as the pack struck again. Shields locked, swords swung, and the line held.
The wolves yelped, staggered, snarled. Another howl split the air — not a command to attack, but a call to retreat.
One by one, the beasts slunk back into the shadows, bleeding, limping. The alpha glared, eyes burning, then turned and vanished into the trees.
The pack was gone.
Silence fell, broken only by ragged breathing and the wagon driver's sob of relief. The oxen stamped nervously, ears flicking.
Shithead's arms shook, his shield dented, his sword nicked. Brina's grin split her bruised face. Calder collapsed onto his knees, trembling. Dorian stood stiff, chest heaving, pride and shame mingling in his eyes. Eryk simply lowered his sword, calm as ever, though sweat streaked his brow.
Ser Joren sat astride his horse, watching. He had not lifted a hand.
"Not clean," he said at last. "Not graceful. But alive. That is enough."
He turned his horse without another word.
The company stared at one another. Bruised, battered, bloodied — but alive.
Brina laughed, breathless. "Did you see their faces when we held the line? Aureon himself must've been watching!"
Calder managed a weak smile, still shaking. "I thought I was finished. But—" He looked at Shithead. "You pulled me up."
Shithead only nodded, too tired to speak.
Dorian sheathed his sword with a sharp snap. "We survived. That is all that matters." But his eyes flicked to Shithead with something different — not friendship, not yet, but recognition.
They made camp by the road, tending shallow cuts, binding bruises, building a fire from fallen branches. The wagon driver pressed food into their hands, voice thick with gratitude.
They ate in silence, fire crackling, the night thick around them. Wolves howled in the distance, but none dared come near.
Shithead stared into the flames, beads warm against his wrist. For the first time, he did not feel like an orphan clinging to others' charity. He felt like part of something. Bruised, battered, imperfect — but part of a line that had held.
And he whispered a prayer into the night, not sure if Aureon heard, but hoping: Let me keep them safe.