Chapter 10: Continuation
1923 Words
They move without speaking, side by side now, tracking the scent back through the trees. It winds through the pines, over a frozen creek, and up toward a low rise. The snow is thinner here, wind-scoured to bare patches of earth and stone.
Halfway up the slope, Ronan stops. His head lifts, nostrils flaring. “He’s there.”
Sylra see him then—a figure standing on the crest. Tall, fur-lined coat, hood down to reveal dark hair streaked with silver. A bow in one hand, relaxed at his side. His expression is unreadable, but the way the wolves prowl in a loose circle below him says enough. He’s not afraid of us.
Ronan stomach knots. H know him.
“Kerrick,” he say.
The man smiles faintly, as if hearing his name from my mouth is some private victory.
“Ronan,” he calls back. “You’ve been hard to find.”
Ronan fists clench before he can stop them. H feel Sylra’s eyes flick to him, reading him, filing away every crack in his composure.
“What do you want?” he demand.
Kerrick’s smile widens. “You. Alive, preferably. But I’ll take you either way.”
Sylra don’t move, but her weight shifts subtly toward Ronan. Not protective—strategic. If Kerrick orders the wolves in, she’ll need to cut a path, and it’s easier if he stays in her blind spot.
SH study Kerrick’s stance, his grip on the bow, the way his eyes move between us. He’s measuring the space, counting heartbeats. He hasn’t decided if he’s going to kill them yet.
The wind shifts. Sylra catch another scent—more wolves. Behind them this time.
Ronan senses it too. Their window’s closing fast.
He murmur without turning my head, “On my count, we go downhill.”
She doesn’t question, just waits.
“Three… two… one—”
Both of them move.
The slope drops fast beneath their boots, snow and loose rock making every step a controlled fall. Wolves burst from the treeline above, their snarls tearing through the quiet morning. Kerrick’s shout follows, sharp and commanding, but it’s too late—Sylra and Ronan already vanishing into the deeper forest.
---
Sylra’s POV:
The forest swallows us in a blur of snow-laden branches and the whip of cold air against my face. Ronan’s movements are quick but controlled, his stride longer than mine, forcing me to match his pace. Every few steps I flick my gaze back, and each time the wolves are closer—flashes of white fur between the trunks, dark eyes fixed and unblinking.
“They’re driving us!” I shout over the pounding of our boots.
“I know!” His voice doesn’t rise with panic—just certainty. And there’s something in it, some edge of familiarity with this kind of hunt, that prickles along my spine.
We cut hard to the left, down a slope steep enough to send loose snow cascading ahead of us. My footing slips on a patch of ice, but before I can correct, Ronan’s hand shoots out, catching my arm and yanking me upright without slowing his pace.
The touch sears through me—not the warmth of his skin, but the bond’s sudden flare, burning bright enough to make me grit my teeth.
He doesn’t let go until we hit the bottom of the slope.
---
Ronan’s POV:
The wolves know this ground better than we do. Every path I think to take, they’re already pressing us toward. Kerrick is up there, orchestrating this like a wargame, and it’s working.
Sylra’s breathing is steady despite the pace. Good—if she was flagging, I’d have to slow us down, and that would get us both killed.
The scent ahead shifts, faint but there: running water. I angle toward it. Wolves hate the unpredictability of ice under their paws.
“River,” I say.
“I hear it,” she answers.
Branches slap at my shoulders as we push through the undergrowth. The sound of the river grows, a low, constant roar beneath the thundering of my pulse. We break out onto a narrow bank, ice crusting the edges, dark water swirling in the center.
---
Sylra’s POV:
He doesn’t hesitate. “We cross,” he says, already stepping onto the first slab of ice.
“That ice won’t hold us both,” I warn.
“It doesn’t have to. Just enough to slow them.”
The wolves break from the treeline behind us, their paws hitting the snow with a rhythm that makes my chest tighten. I take a breath, then follow, my boots skidding over the slick surface. Every creak beneath my feet makes my fingers twitch around my knife.
Halfway across, the ice groans like something alive. I see a spiderweb of cracks flash out from under Ronan’s foot. He looks back, and in that second, one of the wolves lunges onto the ice after us.
---
Ronan’s POV:
“Go!” I bark.
Sylra doesn’t argue—she pushes forward, light on her feet. The wolf’s weight hits the ice behind me with a shudder, and the crack widens, water surging up in thin, glassy sheets.
I drop to a knee, slam my palm against the ice, and shove heat down through it. The curse flares too eagerly, almost ripping through my control—but it’s enough. The ice beneath the wolf gives way with a sharp, wet snap, and it disappears into the black water.
The sound that follows isn’t the splash—it’s Kerrick’s shout from somewhere on the far bank.
---
Sylra’s POV:
We hit the opposite bank, boots sliding in the slush. Ronan’s face is tight, jaw clenched, his breath fogging in quick bursts.
I want to ask about what he just did, about the heat, but this isn’t the moment. The wolves are still circling behind us, regrouping, and I can feel Kerrick’s presence out there—patient, calculating.
“This won’t stop them,” I say.
“No,” Ronan admits. “But it’ll buy us minutes.”
We push back into the trees, the sound of the river fading behind us. The forest here is denser, the snow thinner underfoot, making our steps quieter. My ears strain for any sign of pursuit, and then—there. A low growl, closer than it should be.
---
Ronan’s POV:
I grab her arm and pull her down just as a wolf bursts from a thicket to our right. Its momentum carries it past us, teeth snapping at empty air. Sylra rolls to her feet in one smooth motion, her knife flashing once, twice—blood sprays against the snow, and the wolf collapses.
“Two minutes,” she says, already moving again.
“Generous,” I mutter.
The trees thin ahead, opening into a small clearing dotted with boulders half-buried in snow. It’s a good place to stand our ground if we have to—but also a good place to get surrounded.
Sylra pauses at the edge, scanning. “He’s herding us again.”
I scan the opposite treeline. “Then we don’t give him the satisfaction.”
---
Sylra’s POV:
We cut along the edge of the clearing instead of crossing it, sticking to the cover of the trees. My shoulders are tight, every muscle waiting for the next attack. The bond thrums between us, low and steady now, as if it knows we’re in sync even when I don’t want to be.
Then—movement ahead. Not a wolf. A shadow breaking from behind a boulder, upright, carrying a blade. One of Kerrick’s men.
Ronan sees him the same instant I do. He doesn’t slow—just veers toward him.
The man barely has time to bring his blade up before Ronan’s on him, steel ringing against steel. I dart in from the side, my knife slipping between the man’s ribs before he can recover from Ronan’s blow.
He goes down hard, snow puffing up around him.
---
Ronan’s POV:
The scent of blood hits the air, sharp and hot. The wolves will smell it.
“We keep moving,” I say.
We push into the opposite treeline, but now the sounds of pursuit are coming from both sides. They’ve split the pack.
Sylra glances at me. “We’re not outrunning them.”
“No,” I agree. “We’re turning on them.”
Her brow lifts. “Now?”
I draw the blade from my back. “Unless you’d rather die tired.”
---
Sylra’s POV:
The first wolf bursts through the snow to my left. I pivot into it, knife flashing, cutting deep into its flank. It yelps, but another takes its place immediately, jaws snapping at my shoulder.
Ronan slams into it from the side, sending it sprawling. His movements are brutal but efficient—no wasted motion, no hesitation. We move around each other without speaking, our arcs of attack overlapping like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
The clearing is chaos—snarls, the thud of bodies hitting snow, the glint of steel in the cold light. And through it all, Kerrick’s scent lingers, just beyond reach.
---
Ronan’s POV:
Four down. Two to go. But my control’s slipping—every kill stirs the heat in my blood higher, and the curse wants more. I can feel it trying to tear free, to burn through every living thing in reach.
Sylra’s voice cuts through it. “Ronan!”
I turn just in time to see the last wolf leap for her. My body moves before I think—I’m between them, my blade driving up into its chest. It hits the snow with a final, shuddering breath.
And then the forest is quiet. Too quiet.
---
Sylra’s POV:
My chest is heaving, but my grip on the knife is steady. Ronan’s shoulders are tense, his head turning slowly, scanning the trees.
And then—I see him. Kerrick, standing just beyond the edge of the clearing, bow in hand, an arrow already notched.
The arrow’s point is aimed at Ronan’s heart.
---
Ronan’s POV:
We lock eyes. He smiles again, the same cold, deliberate curve of his mouth as before.
“Round one,” Kerrick says, voice carrying easily through the stillness.
And then the arrow flies.
- Writer
