POV: LUNA SILVER
The sled creaks beneath me, but the sound is lost under the crack of another dart slicing the air.
It thunks into a pine trunk inches from Finn's ear.
Snow puffs off the bark like white smoke.
My heart bangs so hard I think the babies feel it, because they still go—no more kicks, no more drums, just frozen waiting.
"Down!" Elder Mora barks.
Finn drops flat, his chest hitting the sled rail.
The black thread between our wrists snaps tight, shooting fire up my arm.
I bite my lip to keep from screaming and scaring the pups more.
White-coats fan through the trees, red-dart guns raised.
Their boots crunch slowly, carefully.
Snow-cat engines idle behind them, headlights painting everything ghost-blue.
The lead human, a lady with a tight ponytail and orange goggles, points at me.
"Take the pregnant specimen first.
Tranquilize the silver male."
My body wants to shift, but the babies weigh heavy; any change might squeeze them too tight.
Finn's eyes meet mine, silver swirling with panic.
He's half drugged from the scratch-dart already in his shoulder.
His knees tremble, but he stays between me and the guns.
Brave, but one more dart and he'll fall.
Mara growls, teeth bared.
Milo scoops snow, packing it hard.
Elder Mora's claw still hovers above the black thread, unsure.
If she cuts now, the pain spike could knock me out cold—easy carry for the humans.
If she waits, the thread keeps choking our hearts.
Another dart whistles.
It grazes Finn's ear; a bead of blood blooms, bright on white fur.
He staggers.
The black thread drinks his pain and feeds it straight into me.
My vision tunnels.
I can't pass out.
I can't.
"Option three," I whisper to Mora.
"Cut and run."
She frowns, not understanding.
I gulp air, push words past the burn.
"Cut the thread the same second we bolt.
Shock hits them, not us.
They'll hesitate."
Her eyes widen—she sees it.
She nods once.
"On three," she breathes.
"One…"
Ponytail Lady lifts her gun, aiming at Finn's neck.
"Two…"
Milo pulls his arm back, ready to throw.
"Three!"
Mora's claw slashes.
The black thread snaps with a sound like breaking ice.
Pain slams into my chest—white hot—then vanishes as if yanked away.
Finn roars, the drug in him mixing with sudden freedom.
He spins, grabs the sled rope, and jerks forward with every ounce of king-wolf strength.
The sled leaps downhill toward the valley.
At the same instant Milo hurls his snow-rock; it smashes into Ponytail Lady's goggles.
She yelps, finger squeezing trigger—dart fires into the air, harmless.
Mara leaps, snapping at hands, guns clatter.
Elder Mora flings moon-powder; silver mist blinds the humans.
Chaos erupts—shouts, curses, snow flying.
But I'm flying too, sled skimming the slope, wind roaring past.
Finn runs in front, paws a blur.
The healer's den waits below, windows glowing warm gold.
Each bump jolts my belly, but the pain is clean now, not choking.
The babies stir, tiny fists drumming again—scared, but alive.
Halfway down, Finn's drugged legs wobble.
He stumbles, sled veering.
I grab the rope with both hands, leaning right, steering us away from a jagged stump.
Snow sprays wide.
We skid to a stop in a puff of white, breathless but upright.
Footsteps pound behind—Mara, Milo, Mora racing after us, wolves and raccoons sliding on the slope.
No humans yet; the mist held them a few precious seconds.
We push on, reaching the valley floor.
The healer's door is right there, round wooden gate carved with pawprints.
Finn shifts to boy-form, hands trembling, and hammers the door.
"Help!
Healer Mora, please!"
His voice cracks.
I stay curled on the sled, guarding my belly with both arms.
The door swings open.
A tall woman with gray-streaked hair and soft green eyes peers out.
She wears a simple wool dress and carries a pouch of herbs.
Her nose twitches, scenting me, the babies, the drug on Finn.
She doesn't flinch.
"I am Mora," she says gently.
"Come in, little ones."
We tumble inside.
The den is warm, one big room full of plant smells—mint, lavender, sweet pine.
A low bed of moss waits near a stone hearth.
Finn and Mara lift me onto it.
Milo bars the door with a chair.
Healer Mora kneels, pressing her ear to my tummy.
Two tiny thumps answer—thump-thump, thump-thump—steady but fast.
She listens for a long moment, eyes closed.
When she sits up, her face is calm, but I see worry hiding behind her smile.
"Babies are strong," she says, "but birth is knocking early.
We must slow it until your body is ready."
She pulls jars and bottles—cloud-silk, moon-oil, snow-melt water.
She mixes a drink, helps me sip.
It tastes like cool mint and summer wind.
The cramps ease at once; the babies settle.
I breathe deep for the first time since the mountain blast.
Finn sags with relief.
Healer Mora cleans the dart scratch on his neck, gives him a bitter leaf to chew against the drug.
He sits on the floor beside my bed, paw in my paw, never looking away.
Outside, distant shouts rise—humans reorganizing, following our tracks.
Mara peers through the curtained window.
"They'll reach the valley soon."
Healer Mora nods.
"This den is hidden by old wards, but wards fade under bright headlights.
We need a decoy."
Milo's eyes sparkle.
"I can be a decoy.
I'm small, fast, and I smell like trouble."
Mara ruffles his head.
"Not alone."
She turns to Finn.
"King's call—summon the pack to circle the valley ridge.
Humans won't climb if they see fifty wolves staring down."
Finn stands, swaying a little, but the leaf is working; his eyes clear.
He throws back his head and howls—long, rolling, full of command.
The sound carries up the slopes, echoing off pines.
Answer howls answer at once—dozens, then more.
The pack is coming.
Healer Mora lights a small lantern, dims the hearth.
"Quiet now.
Let them guard outside.
Inside, we wait and we mend."
She pulls a soft blanket over me, tucks it around my belly.
The babies give a lazy kick, as if yawling.
I smile, exhausted.
Time passes.
Howls outside move in a ring around the valley, like a living fence.
No human engines approach.
For now, we are safe.
Healer Mora sits beside me again.
She lifts the cracked crystal chip I still clutch.
"It's dying," she says softly.
"But it holds one last secret."
She sets the chip on a stone dish, drips moon-oil on it.
The crack glows, revealing a tiny symbol inside—a pawprint wrapped by a crown.
She studies it, then looks at Finn, then at me.
"This is the key to the old law vault beneath the school.
Whoever holds this may rewrite any rule.
That is why Vex wanted you gone.
That is why the humans hunt you—they were paid to deliver you to him, not to science."
My heart sinks.
Even with Vex beaten, the fight isn't over.
Finn squeezes my paw.
"Then we finish it.
We change the law so no pup ever faces this again."
Healer Mora nods.
"Rest first.
Tomorrow we march."
I want to speak, but sleep pulls me under like warm water.
The last thing I feel is Finn's thumb rubbing my knuckles, the babies' soft kicks, the scent of mint in the air.
Sometime later, a soft click wakes me.
The lantern is out; the room is dark except for moonlight through a high window.
Finn dozes on the floor, head beside my bed.
Everyone else sleeps.
I hear the click again—metal on stone.
I lift my head.
The window cracked open.
A gloved human hand slips inside, holding a tiny glass vial.
The hand tips the vial; clear liquid drips onto the windowsill, then starts creeping down the wall like a living spider, heading straight for my bed.
It moves without sound, without smell.
Wherever it touches, the stone turns dull gray, crumbling to sand.
If it reaches me, it will reach the babies.
I open my mouth to scream—but the liquid spider suddenly stops, lifts a tiny head of droplets, and forms a shape in mid-air: a black wolf silhouette with no fur—just dripping poison.
It pauses, staring at me, as if waiting for me to move.
My voice freezes in my throat.
Finn's paw is right under the path of the creeping poison, asleep.
One more inch and the liquid will touch his fur, then mine, then the babies.
Outside the window, out of sight, a soft human voice whispers, "Got you, specimen."
And the poison spider begins to move again.