The torches guttered one by one, their flames shrinking into embers that hissed against the damp night air. By the time the last of the mob had drifted away, silence once more cloaked the forest at the Eastern pack's border. Silence save for the shallow, rattling breaths of the girl they had left broken on the grassy ground.
Arin's face was a ruin of swelling and blood, her hair matted, lips split. She tried once to move, to roll onto her side, but the effort sent waves of fire through her ribs and darkness pressed at the edges of her vision. She let herself fall back into the dirt, staring up at the moon half-veiled by ragged clouds.
She thought of Vale. Of Isolde's calm assurance that she could manage. Her cracked lips formed a whisper that barely stirred the night: I didn't… I didn't do it…
And then, she slipped into blackness.
