Page 89 of Full Moon
Through the bond, I can see what she sees—her wolf circling the polar wendigo, searching for an opening to strike while the creature tracks her with those burning green eyes. Torben's bear holds two of the yeti at bay, his massive form a wall of muscle and fury, while Khal's basilisk coils beside him, his stone gaze useless against enemies that have no life left to steal.
They're holding their own.
For now.
But I can sense the precariousness of their situation, the way exhaustion is already beginning to drag at them after the hunt. They've been fighting for their lives while we watched from a balcony, and shame burns through me alongside the rage.
Easton and I dive in tandem, unleashing twin streams of fire that sear a blazing barrier between our allies and the advancing yeti. The snow explodes into steam where our flames touch it, and the yeti recoil with shrieks of animal terror—the first real emotion I've seen from them.
The collars pulse angrily, forcing them forward even as their flesh begins to smoke. I hope the barrier buys us precious time to reach Feray, to turn the tide of this battle before we lose someone we can't afford to lose. And as I bank toward the wendigo, a terrible understanding clicks into place—the final piece of a puzzle I've been trying to solve since we discovered what Feray truly is. I understand now why they want her dead.
It's not just about the prophecy. It's not just about fear of winter wolves or hatred of shifters or whatever petty grievances the councils nurse in their black hearts. It's aboutpower.
Feray's connection to the Dunnum pack gives her hundreds of wolves who would die at her command. Her claim to Crescent Valley adds hundreds more—nearly seven hundred if we count every wolf who bowed to her after she killed the false alpha. Together, that's an army that rivals anything the shifter councils could muster, spread across territories that span half a continent.
She is a massive threat to their rule. And if she ever opposes them—if she ever decides to challenge the corruption and cruelty they've perpetuated for generations—they know with bone-deep certainty that it would be their end. They're not hunting her because they fear what she is. They're hunting her because they fear what she couldbecome.
The world moves in slow motion as I watch Torben's bear barrel into the massive polar wendigo, his full weight behind a charge that would flatten a building. The impact sends ripples through the creature's blubbery flesh, knocking it back several steps—but it doesn't fall. Doesn't even seem to notice the pain.
Feray seizes the opening with the ruthless precision I've come to expect from her wolf. She lunges for the creature's head, her massive jaws closing around its skull with a crack that echoes across the frozen wasteland. The wendigo screams—a sound that will haunt my nightmares for centuries—as Feray and Torben attack in coordinated fury, tearing into its rotting flesh with claws and teeth. Black blood sprays across the snow, steaming where it lands despite the cold.
Nearby, Easton's fire blazes brighter than the sun, engulfing three of the yeti in flames so hot the snow around them melts in an expanding circle. Their screams pierce the air like knives, mingling with the noxious black smoke that rises from their burning flesh and fur.
I swoop down and add my own stream of fire to the writhing bodies, ensuring they will never rise again. The collars around their necks melt and spark, the magic within them sputtering out as the metal runs like water.
A sharp yelp cuts through the chaos, and my heart stops. Feray.
I spin in midair and see her—my mate, my eternal, my reason for existing—with a fresh wound carved across her wolf's face. The wendigo's claws have bisected her eyebrow, narrowly missing her eye by less than an inch, and the gash continues down her cheek in a line of crimson that stands out against her white fur like a brand.
Rage ignites deep within me. Not the hot fury of battle. Something colder. Older. The kind of rage that builds dynasties and destroys empires, that waits with infinite patience for the perfect moment to strike.Someone is going to die for this.I land heavily beside the ongoing battle, my massive form shaking the ground as I stomp toward the wendigo. Feray and Torben look up at my approach, read something in my dragon's eyes, and wisely step aside.
The creature is already torn apart—its mage nearly ripped from its chest where Feray's claws found whatever dark magic was keeping it alive. It twitches and writhes in the bloody snow, not yet dead but no longer able to fight.
I raise my dragon's front foot high. And I bring it down with every ounce of strength nine hundred years has given me. The sickening crunch of bones shattering beneath my weight echoes across the tundra like a death knell. The wendigo squishes like a grape beneath my foot, black ichor and rotting viscera spraying in every direction. The silence that follows is absolute.
The air is thick with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid smell of burned flesh. The landscape around us has become a twisted nightmare—bodies strewn about, some charred beyond recognition, others crushed into the snow until they're barely identifiable as something that once lived. I stand amidst the carnage, my senses still heightened from the battle, my dragon slowly settling back beneath my skin as the threat fades.
Feray shifts back to human form beside me, her body visibly trembling with a volatile mixture of rage and adrenaline. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, each exhale misting in the cold air, and the wound on her face bleeds freely down her cheek and neck, staining her pale skin crimson.
The remnants of the creature that hunted her—that might have killed her parents, that was sent specifically to end her life—lie flattened beneath my foot, a gruesome reminder of what happens to those who threaten what is mine.
"I am so sick and tired of having to fight these bloody things," she spits out, her voice echoing with frustration as she gestures to the mangled corpse. Her eyes—still ice blue and burning with her wolf's fury—turn to the sky as if demanding answers from the gods themselves. "When is it going toend?" she screams, and the raw emotion in her voice sends chills down my spine.
I shift back into human form and meet her gaze, feeling the heat of her fury and the iron core of her determination. She isn't broken by this. She isn't afraid. She'sangry.
Good.
"It will end with their heads on pikes," I reply, my voice a low growl as I survey the battlefield littered with crispy yetis and the flattened remains of the wendigo beneath my boot prints. "It's been centuries since I added skulls to my collection. It's high time I start again."
I crack my knuckles—a human habit I picked up somewhere along the centuries—and step closer to Feray. Gently, with a tenderness that seems impossible for hands that just crushed a monster to pulp, I lift her chin to examine the wound.
The angry red line runs from just below her hairline, bisects her eyebrow, skirts past her eye by a miracle, and continues down her cheek to her jaw. An inch to the left and she would be blind in that eye. An inch deeper and she might not be standing here at all. The phoenix feather woven into her hair burns brightly, pulsing with golden light as it works to heal what damage it can. Already the bleeding is slowing, the edges of the wound beginning to knit together with supernatural speed.
Easton approaches, his hand raised and ready. "Do you want me to heal it?" he offers, concern etched deep into his features. "I can remove it completely—no scar, no mark, like it never happened."
Feray considers him for a long moment, something ancient and fierce flickering behind her ice-blue eyes. "No," she says finally, her voice firm. "I earned this. I fought to protect my people and survived a polar bear wendigo. This scar ismine."
She tilts her head, looking from me to Easton with a small smile tugging at her lips—the first hint of warmth I've seen since the attack began. "Thank you anyway."
