Lucian
By the time the sun broke through the clouds, the snow was wrong.
Too much red in it.
It streaked the drifts in ugly lines, soaked patches of trampled white into rusted brown. Wolves moved through it with bowed heads and tired eyes—some limping, some carrying stretchers, some too drained to shift back yet.
Kieran walked beside me, dried blood on his neck.
“North perimeter held,” he said, voice rough. “South and east took the worst. Wards are damaged near the old gate and lower treeline. Thalia’s on it.”
“How many injured?” I asked.
“Thirty-seven serious. About forty minor.” He hesitated. “Four dead.”
The number landed like a fist. My face stayed neutral.
“Names later,” I said. “We focus on the living first.”
We crossed the courtyard outside the infirmary. It had become an
