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My legs felt very cold now. My eyes were blurring. Still, I looked towards the camp.
A red fog seemed to hang over the sea of tents. Tendrils of crimson, like putrescent vines, covered some of the canvas shelters themselves. And between them all ran the wolves.
I could hear the howling, the growls, and amongst the sounds of the beasts, the screams of children.
Gritting my teeth, I shoved my leg out in front of me and looked down at the arrow embedded in my calf. Pain seared through me. I took a deep, steadying breath.
Wrapping my hand around the arrow, my fingers closed around the shaft. My teeth clenched, the taste of metal flooding my mouth as I braced for what came next.
In a deliberate motion, I swiftly pulled. The barbed arrowhead caught, lingering on flesh and sinew, resisting removal.
I could feel the blood draining from my face. Praying I wasn’t about to pass out, I tugged harder. The arrowhead gave up its hold. I gasped as an intense burning surged up my leg.
I leaned over into the grass and emptied the contents of my stomach, then pushed myself up again and clenched my teeth. It wasn’t over.
Exhaling shakily, I turned my attention to the arrow in my shoulder. Gingerly, my fingers traced the shaft. Then, taking a deep breath, I grasped it hard. Drawing on every ounce of willpower I had, I yanked the arrow from my shoulder, feeling muscles and sinew rip and tear as I pulled.
For a moment, there was some relief. Then agony swept back over me.
I fell backwards onto the grass, waves of nausea and dizziness filling my body.
Across the field, Draven and Lorion were still fighting. I turned my head, trying to focus my eyes enough to see.
Lorion’s wolf was already dead. The massive beast lay lifeless in the grass, its eyes glazed over.
I hoped the wolf had meant a great deal to my brother. But I doubted it had.
The men paid the dead wolf no need. They were engaged in a deadly waltz. Draven’s steel blade against Lorion’s golden spear.
My mate moved with calculation, parrying my brother’s thrusts. I could see that both were deadly fighters.
As Lorion moved, I thought of the countless battles he must have fought by my father’s side. He was older than Draven. Perhaps more experienced.
The battle was intensifying in a flurry of close combat. Lorion seemed to be giving ground. My heart sped up as I realized he was luring my mate in with a false sense of advantage. Would Draven fall for it?
Draven pressed his attack, swinging his longsword. I could see the cold fury in his eyes as he danced in battle with my brother mere steps from where Gawain had fallen.
Gawain. And now me.
I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of clashing weapons and the cries of desperation coming from the camp. My mind felt urged to action. But my body felt weighed down with weakness, as if heavy chains bound me to the earth.
I opened my eyes. A bird spun overhead.
A carrion bird. A harbinger of death.
Was it waiting to feast upon Gawain? Or upon me?
It circled as if assessing me, then evidently deciding I was no threat, swooped down with purpose.
I closed my eyes, preparing to beat away the cursed bird with my fists if I had to.
Then to my shock, a heavy weight landed upon my chest.
I opened my eyes to see Tuva sitting there, fixing me with her keen, luminous eyes.
A connection sparked between us. I could feel a profound intelligence emanating from the owl.
She pecked me. Hard. Digging her curved beak into my forehead and raking downwards.
