The smoke was no longer a threat; it was a physical weight crushing the air out of my lungs.
Outside, the camp had devolved into pure, unadulterated terror. The fight between loyalists and rebels had torn down the surrounding tents, and the massive braziers kept lit for the winter had been kicked over in the brawl. Waves of orange fire were licking at the canvas of Silas's command tent, ignited not by chance, but by the literal tearing apart of his pack.
I could hear the specific, gut-wrenching scream of a mother coughing through the smoke, shrieking the name of her child over the sound of snapping jaws. Shadows of wolves in mid-shift sprinted past the tent, their howls full of a desperate, panicked need to escape.
And inside, Thomas was not dying quickly.
I was still gripping his hand
