The smell of blood just wouldn’t leave. Not after sunset, not after the wounded left, not even when the cold winds swept the battlefield clean. Silver Crest didn’t look untouched anymore. Now it wore ugly, open wounds.
Liana drifted through the northern medical camp, moving slowly while wolves darted everywhere with crimson-stained supplies. Healers hustled around her, weaving between rows of battered bodies lying on makeshift beds under big white tents.
Pain hung thick in the air. You could hear it—the groans, the desperate quiet, the tortured breaths. Some wolves barely moved at all. The sharp stink of silver poison tangled with blood and dirt, heavy and choking.
Every corner she turned, war looked back at her. And inside, she felt—no way around it—it was her fault.
Nearby, a young w
