The aftermath was a haze of exhaustion and adrenaline, the kind that leaves your bones heavy but your mind buzzing. The Bloodfangs’ camp was a wreck—tents torn, fires smoldering, bodies scattered across the clearing. The air stank of blood and smoke, sharp and acrid, clinging to my clothes. I wiped my blade on my pant leg, the motion automatic, my hands still shaky from the fight. My lip throbbed where Ragnar had hit me, and every breath stung, but I was alive. We all were.
Lucian stood a few feet away, barking orders to the trackers—secure the perimeter, check for survivors, gather anything useful. His voice was steady, but I caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his fists clenched when he thought no one was looking. He’d killed Ragnar, ended the immediate threat, but I could tell
