Logan's POV
Fenrir's jaws close around the throat of an elf, ripping cartilage and gills in a spray of black ichor. He tosses the body aside and snaps at another. I pivot with him, sword flashing in rhythm to his teeth, the two of us cutting a path through the monsters trying to close in around us.
I'm drowning in layers of noise from the crowd and the wind rushing through my ears, but my eyes are locked on the king.
Althir's neck cranes unnaturally high, gills flaring as he hisses at me. He neither looks nor looks like a man anymore— that deception is long gone. He slinks around like an eel dragged onto land, fast snaking movements, writhing limbs jerking in ugly, fluid sways. His yellow eyes find me and widen with hunger.
'Mine,' they say.
Not a chance.
"Fenrir," I mutter through gritted teeth. His ears flick. His hackles rise. He knows what I mean without me saying it; we're going after the king.
