FINNIAN
Shouts, low and sharp, braided with ragged breathing. I heard men. I heard crying. I turned and saw some of my pack lingering at the edge, their faces pale, their hands clenched. I thought they had left. “Prince! Please fight back! Don’t die yet!” they murmured, like a prayer they did not mean.
Then the ash wolf’s hand went flying. It was sudden like a clean, wet arc and blood spattered, bright and wrong against the gray night. He howled. The sound tore through whatever numbness had been wrapping me.
A voice cut through the chaos. A voice I knew was like a blade. It made the world tilt and pull me upright. Classara.
My heart knocked so hard I thought my ribs would crack. She was there. How? Why? Had she come to die?
She screamed. The wolf's fangs bit down into her belly. Her w
