The Emberroot Plains sprawled before them, a sea of gold swaying under a molten afternoon sun. The air was warm, carrying the scent of grass and wild thyme, but beneath it lay something colder—an almost imperceptible rumble that Eliakim felt in his chest before he heard it.
Wolves.
Not the lean hunters of Yldrahollow's forests, but hulking shapes pushing through the grass, shoulders rolling like tide waves. Skyling's shadow swept over them as she cut a slow circle high above. Her voice was a silver thread in Eliakim's mind:"Fifteen… and one of them is larger. Scarred. Watching us."
The wagon jolted as Varek ducked under the tarp, muttering a prayer. "Fifteen? Then we turn the wagon, now—"
Eliakim's voice was steel. "We fight."
His eyes scanned the terrain. Two weatherworn stone pillars rose thirty paces ahead, the remains of some forgotten archway. The gap between them—barely two wolves wide—would do.
"Gideon," he said, already uncoiling rope from the wagon, "hold the gap. Nothing passes you."
The half-lycan's hand tightened on his twin axes, their polished edges catching the sun. A slow grin spread over his face. "Leave it to me."
Oil sloshed into the grass as Eliakim broke open a barrel, soaking a strip of earth just before the choke point. Smoke could panic beasts—he'd make that work for them.
They came in a rush of silver and muscle, paws thundering against the earth. The lead wolves loped with unnerving coordination, their breaths curling in the air like mist.
And then the alpha appeared.
It was massive—shoulder-high to a man, scars raking across its muzzle, one ear torn away. Its eyes locked onto them with the still, calculating hunger of an apex predator.
Skyling swooped low in a flash of blue and silver, raking talons across a flank before soaring upward again. The pack's rhythm faltered.
The first wolf leapt for the gap—only to be met midair by Gideon's swing. The silver axe split it clean through, blood flaring in an arc before pattering against the stone. He pivoted without pause, catching the next attacker's jaw and hurling it aside like a sack of grain.
Eliakim struck flint to torch, hurling it into the oil-soaked grass. Fire roared to life, black smoke curling upward in thick banners. The wolves snarled, pacing just outside the wall of flame—until the alpha roared and surged through, smoke curling around its shoulders like a cloak.
Gideon met it head-on. The impact rang like struck steel, his axes locking against the beast's teeth. Muscles bunched in his arms as the two struggled, claws scraping sparks from the stone underfoot. Then Gideon twisted, dragging one axe down to wrench the wolf's head aside—before driving the other deep into its neck.
Blood fountained. The alpha sagged, knees buckling, and fell with a thud that shook the grass.
The Smoke Only He Saw
The moment the alpha stilled, Eliakim froze.
From its torn throat, a faint black smoke began to rise—not like steam, but as if shadow itself were bleeding into the air. It swirled upward, slow and deliberate, before dissolving into nothingness.
His eyes darted to the other fallen wolves. Each one exhaled the same dark vapor in their last breath. The sight was unnerving, too much like the wisp that had been torn from Varek's head and heart only yesterday.
Gideon didn't seem to notice. Neither did Varek. This was something only Eliakim could see.
The field stank of blood and burnt grass. Bodies lay sprawled where they'd fallen, fur singed, jaws still open in silent snarls.
Varek crept from the wagon, frowning. "That was… excessive." His eyes swept the corpses. "But profitable."
Eliakim didn't answer, still watching the last traces of smoke fade.
Varek raised his hand, the silver Ring of Galveryn glinting on Eliakim's finger catching his gaze. The merchant gave a wry smile. "Use it well, lad."
Eliakim flexed his hand, willing the ring to work. The nearest wolf shimmered—and vanished into the ring's hidden space. Another followed. Then another. Within moments, the battlefield was cleared, save for the blackened earth and the faint tang of death.
Skyling landed lightly atop one of the stone pillars, her wings folding tight."The road is clear. Greyspire is on the horizon."
Eliakim looked toward the distant city walls, the weight of the ring settling on him like a silent promise—and the memory of that strange smoke gnawing at the edges of his mind.