In the heart of camp, lanterns hung over makeshift stretchers. Wounded werewolves groaned among heat-soaked blankets. A healer's touch was practiced and tender, but there were too many injuries and not enough time—or magic—to heal them all.
A young pup, covered in blood and soot, looked up at Kieran. "Alpha… they took my mother…"
Kieran knelt, voice gentle but unyielding. "I swear I will bring her back or fall trying." He pressed a hand to the pup's head. "Go with the healers."
He moved on.
Adrenaline waned as the gates of battle edged closer. Ahead waited no silvered sunrise—just the roar of things corrupt and brutal.
Battle began before midnight. Demon wolves struck from the treeline—fast, intelligent, coordinated—breaking the line with primal force. They emerged like nightmares, rifling through ranks with brutality born of dark art.
