The battle began at midnight.
Elara stood at the entrance of the healing hut, watching the distant flashes of battle—torches, weapons, bodies shifting between forms. The sounds were terrible: snarls and screams and the clash of steel, carried on the wind like a song of death. Each cry seemed to pierce her heart, each distant roar a reminder of the danger her loved ones faced.
Marta worked beside her, preparing bandages and salves, her old hands steady despite the chaos. Other healers moved through the hut, checking supplies, readying beds. They all knew what was coming. They all prayed to the moon for strength.
The first wounded arrived within the hour.
Finn was carried in by two warriors, his leg torn open by claws. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandages, and his face was pale wi
