“Eight,” Zara whispers. “Just as you said.”
I count them silently. Seven silver-grays and one larger black wolf leading the formation—an alpha, by his size and the deference the others show him.
“They’re not hunting,” I observe, watching their deliberate progress through the valley. “This is a scouting party.”
“Mapping our territory,” Zara agrees. “Planning for something larger.”
We watch as the wolves pause at the stream, the alpha lifting his head to scent the air. For a heart-stopping moment, I fear he’s caught our scent, but the breeze favors us, carrying our presence away from the valley floor.
“We should report this to the council,” Zara says quietly.
I nod, but something holds me in place. The wolves aren’t just passing through; they’re marking specific locations, communicating through body language that speaks of future operations. This isn’t random encroachment. It’s preparation for war.
“They’re coordinating with someone,” I murmur. “These aren’t just territorial disputes anymore.”
Zara’s eyes widen. “You think they’re forming alliances? With whom?”
Before I can answer, the alpha wolf below suddenly stiffens, his massive head swinging toward our position. Despite the favorable wind, he’s sensed something. His lips pull back in a silent snarl, revealing teeth designed for tearing flesh from bone.
“Time to go,” I say, already shifting stance for transformation.
Zara nods, moving back from the outcropping’s edge. “Race you to the eastern ridge.”
The challenge in her voice brings a brief smile to my lips. Even in dangerous moments, Zara retains the playful spirit that’s kept me from becoming completely consumed by leadership burdens. Without waiting for my response, she leaps from the outcropping, her body blurring into eagle form mid-fall.
I follow an instant later, the transformation rippling through me with familiar power. The sensation never loses its wonder—bones lightening, muscles reconfiguring, vision sharpening until the world exists in crystal clarity. My wings catch the air, and I soar upward, leaving the wolves far below.
Zara wheels above me, her smaller form faster if less powerful than mine. We climb higher, putting distance between ourselves and the valley floor. The wolves can’t follow us into the air, but I’ve learned never to underestimate their cunning. If they’ve spotted us, they’ll remember our presence.
We’re halfway to the eastern ridge when I hear it—a sound no Storm Eagle ever forgets. The distinctive whistle of arrows cutting through the air.
“Ambush!” I cry, my voice transformed into a screech in eagle form.
Zara banks sharply left, but she’s a heartbeat too slow. An arrow tears through the edge of her right wing, the impactspinning her in a disorienting spiral. A second arrow follows the first, grazing her side.
I dive toward her, rage and fear surging through me in equal measure. Lightning crackles along my wingtips, instinctive storm magic responding to my emotions. Below, I glimpse the source of the attack—not wolves, but human archers concealed among the trees at the valley’s edge.
An alliance. Wolves and ground-dwellers working together. The strategic implications flash through my mind even as I reach Zara, who struggles to maintain altitude with her damaged wing.
Another volley of arrows rises toward us. I release a pulse of storm magic, the lightning creating a concussive wave that deflects most of the projectiles. One still gets through, slicing across my shoulder in a line of burning pain.
Zara loses altitude rapidly, her wing movements becoming increasingly erratic. I position myself beneath her, using my larger wingspan to create an updraft that helps stabilize her flight. It’s a technique we developed as fledglings, but it’s never been tested under fire.
“The eastern caves,” I call to her, referring to a series of hidden shelters our clan maintains throughout the territory. “Can you make it?”
Her response comes as a determined adjustment of her flight path. Yes, but barely.
More arrows rise from the trees, but we’re gaining distance now, climbing toward the relative safety of the higher peaks where ground-dwellers rarely venture. The wound in my shoulder burns, but it’s superficial. Zara’s injuries worry me more—the way she leans to one side, the labored rhythm of her wingbeats.
We reach the eastern ridge, then push beyond it to a sheer cliff face riddled with small openings. The caves here are toosmall for comfortable habitation, which is why they make perfect emergency shelters—easily defensible, easily overlooked.
Zara manages a rough landing on a narrow ledge, immediately collapsing from eagle form to human. The transformation is usually fluid and graceful, but this one is jagged with pain. Blood stains her tunic where the second arrow grazed her side, but it’s her arm that concerns me most. The wing injury has manifested as a deep laceration from shoulder to elbow, exposing muscle and glimpses of bone, but it is the angry black blood oozing from it that is the most damning evidence of a poison spreading through her bloodstream.
I land beside her, shifting back to human form in an instant. “Let me see,” I say, gently examining her wounds.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she says through gritted teeth, a brave lie we both recognize.
“Since when do wolves work with ground-dwellers?” I ask, trying to distract her as I tear strips from my tunic to bind her wounds. The makeshift bandages soak through with blood almost immediately.
