Chapter Forty-Eight
The forest was quiet again.
Too quiet.
The bodies of the corrupted wolves lay scattered across the clearing, dark blood soaking into the soil beneath them. The metallic scent hung thick in the air, heavy enough that even the wind struggled to carry it away.
Lyra stood at the edge of the battlefield, staring at one of the corpses.
Up close, it looked even worse.
The wolf’s fur was matted and coarse, patches missing as if something had burned the skin beneath. Its muscles looked wrong too, stretched too tightly beneath the hide. And the eyes, now dull and lifeless, still carried a faint red tint that should never exist in a natural wolf.
Cain approached quietly beside her.
“You shouldn’t look at them too long,” he said.
Lyra didn’t move.
“They were wolves once.”
