Page 114 of Full Moon
Praise from Diaval isn't something you earn lightly. It's like the ground shifting beneath me, making me question how I've been seen all this time. I nod, more to myself than to him, and we continue walking. I'm glad to be defying the odds.
The light of day breaks through the cavern's mouth ahead, and I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. The wolves around us yip with excitement, their eager paws echoing off the stone as they catch the first scent of the forest beyond. The air shifts, carrying the promise of fresh prey and freedom from the cold confinement of these tunnels.
Feray's head pops up from where she's been resting, her eyes glowing that familiar glacial blue as she takes in the scene. "They'll hunt for themselves if given enough time," she says, her voice steady. "No offense, but a dragon hunting for them scares them some. Stories of dragons eating wolves were told as bedtime tales to scare them into obedience as pups."
Diaval rolls his eyes. "Of course I'm the bad guy."
"Not it!" I retort, bumping his shoulder playfully.
Diaval chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. "Laugh it up, snakelet." He gives me a smile that tells me he's joking, not biting. The tension eases, but only slightly. The light ahead is promising, but we're not out yet.
"We'll camp at the base of the mountain," Feray decides, her voice softer now, as if the weight of responsibility is pressing down. "We'll pass out the bags there. My pack won't be able to shift and run with their belongings. And I don't think there's enough room in the vehicle for everything they brought."
I watch her tilt her head, pondering her statement for accuracy. A hundred and twenty-five wolves means a hundred and twenty-five bags plus our five. Even strapped to the roof, it would never all fit.
She lays back down, her eyes fluttering shut, but I know she's not resting. Not really. Her mind is spinning with plans, contingencies, and the burden of leadership. Feray is one of the smartest females I've ever met. I've learned never to question her logistics. One thing she knows better than all of us is numbers—she can calculate things faster than the rest of us combined.
There she is, the Queen of the Arctic, managing every detail even when she's barely holding herself up.
As I watch her, I feel that familiar mix of pride and protectiveness swirl inside me.
We're close now.
But we're not out yet. Not by a long shot.
