The eight cursed wolves struggled against their bindings. Terror poured off them in waves. They knew what was coming. Knew they were going to die.
“Release them,” I said to my mother. “Now.”
“No. They made their choice when they refused. Now I make mine.” She drew symbols in the air. Ancient. Dark. Wrong. “The ritual begins at moonrise. Whether they are willing or not.”
“This is murder.”
“This is survival.” Her eyes were cold. Dead. Nothing of the mother I remembered remained. “I spent ten years searching for another way. There is none. So I will do what must be done. What you are too weak to do.”
The words hit like a slap. “I am not weak.”
“Then prove it. Help me bind them. Help me prepare the ritual. Help me save the world.” She held out her hand. “Or step aside and let me do it al
