The old man carries Lowell’s limp body through the thick woods, his breaths heavy but steady. His son walks beside him, silent, his eyes scanning every shadow. The night is quiet, save for the sound of branches cracking under their boots and the soft groans slipping from Lowell’s lips.
The old man spares a glance at the boy in his arms. His skin is pale, his breathing shallow. The wound on his chest burns with a stench they both recognize — fenwick blood and wolfsbane mixed with silver. A slow, cruel death for any Lycan. But not for him. Not if they can help it.
“We’re close,” his son says quietly, his voice calm, not rushed.
The old man nods. “Good.”
They walk in silence until they reach a narrow path hidden behind thick bushes. The son steps forward, parting the leaves, revealing a c
