Zane
At first the pain was distant, dull—almost as if it didn’t belong to me, but to someone else lying too close, my body simply borrowing the memory of their suffering. Then, as my awareness slowly slid back into the present, I felt my own wounds: a burning gash along my ribs, a throbbing bite mark in my side, my shoulder heavy as if stones had been tied to it. But the blood was no longer flowing the way it had minutes ago, and my heartbeat was settling, slow and stubborn, the way only wolves heal—not gracefully, not gently, but with a ruthless efficiency.
I opened my eyes.
At first I saw only dark shapes: the black pillars of trees, the milk-white light of the moon, the ground torn apart by battle, and the thick, heavy scent of blood that still clung to the air, as if the night itsel
