The air was thick with iron and smoke, every breath burning my lungs. Bodies—friend and foe—lay scattered across the ridge like broken chess pieces, crimson soaking the earth beneath the Blood Moon’s merciless glow.
I clutched the dagger Killian had forced into my hand earlier. My knuckles were white, my heart pounding so violently I swore it could give us away. Around me, the Survivors moved with weary precision, patching wounds, sharpening blades, whispering quick prayers.
But Killian… he didn’t pray. He stood at the front, shoulders squared, blood streaking his jaw like war paint. His weapon gleamed under the moonlight, and though his chest rose and fell with exhaustion, he looked untouchable—like the Alpha the world itself bowed to.
Even battered and bleeding, he carried himself lik
