The healer’s tent was thick with the scent of herbs and dried blood. Candles flickered in shallow alcoves, casting long shadows over the wounded. Ashyra stood still at the entrance, fists clenched, forcing herself to remain composed as the moans of injured wolves pierced her ears.
A young Nightshade scout lay on a cot nearest her, eyes closed, face pale. The wound on his chest had already been stitched shut, but it still seeped. Another wolf, barely older than a pup, clutched his side and muttered nonsense in his delirium.
So much loss—and for what?
Stephan approached from behind, his expression hard but drawn. “They hit us like they knew exactly when to strike. We reinforced the perimeter hours before. Still they broke through.”
“Because it wasn’t about breaking through,” Ashyra murmu
