Chapter Forty-four
The ridge was silent when Lyra finally dared to breathe. The valley below still carried the scent of blood and smoke, but it was faint now, like a memory, fading too quickly for comfort. Wolves padded carefully over the ridge, sniffing the air, ears twitching to catch any remaining threat. Broken stone and scattered debris marked the battle’s path, a grim reminder that Ironholt had tested them—and had not been beaten entirely.
Lyra’s silver wolf prowled between the surviving pack members, muscles coiled beneath her fur. Her eyes flicked over each one. Half were injured, some lightly, others more severely. Blood stained their fur, drying in streaks that matched the black of the ridge rock. She paused beside a young Beta whose shoulder had been slashed during the attack.
