The world fades to gray-dark-nothing.
Sweet-gold-power touches my tongue. The wolf retreats, snarling-fighting-fading as more human thoughts and processes start to trickle back to the foreground of my mind. Another swallow of honey-thick liquid slides down my throat. Ambrosia. Ares is kneeling beside me, pressing the flask to my lips. His hands shake slightly—the first time I've ever seen him unsteady.
"Drink," he orders, but there's an edge of fear in his voice that makes my stomach turn. "All of it."
My body feels raw, like I've been torn apart and hastily stitched back together. Every muscle aches with the memory of the shift. The ground beneath me is cool and damp—forest floor, I realize as awareness creeps back. Dead leaves and withered grass press against my bare skin, and I can smell blood. Not just my own.
Shame burns hotter than the fever still raging through my veins. Here I am, naked in the dirt, having lost control like some newly turned pup. I try to sit up but my arms shake with the effort, muscles still trembling from the recent transformation.
"How bad?" My voice comes out rough, like I've been gargling gravel. Please don’t let me have hurt anyone.
"The truck's going to need a new hood." A female voice speaks outside my line of sight, tone caught between amusement and concern. "But no one got hurt. This time."
Those last two words hit like a blade between my ribs. This time. Because there will be other times. Because I'll lose control again, and we all know it.
Ares keeps the flask steady against my lips, his other hand gripping my shoulder to keep me upright. There's tension in his fingers—worry masked as anger. "You should've told me you were struggling sooner, you idiot." The words are harsh but his touch is careful, steadying. Like I'm something that might shatter.
I take another big swallow of ambrosia, letting the honey-thick liquid wash away the last of the wolf's rage. "I won't make that mistake again. I thought I had more control than I did." The admission tastes bitter. "How much longer can we keep this up? I need so much ambrosia already."
“You’re not the only one, brother,” Ares whispers under his breath.
"Here." A different woman speaks this time, her voice gentle. She holds out a stack of strange clothing, careful to keep her movements slow and predictable. Like approaching a wounded animal. The thought makes my teeth ache.
Ares helps me stand, and I grab what appears to be a pair of soft thick pants. I slip them on quickly, trying to ignore the fact that dozens of people just saw everything I have to offer this world. The fabric feels foreign against my skin, but right now I'm just grateful to be in control again and know that my wolf didn't hurt anyone. This time.
Boaz, Wraith, and Arik stand a few steps away, their stances wary but concerned. The distance between us feels wrong. Pack—family—should stand together. Alongside them are three women—two human females and one Elf female with delicate pointed ears and curly blonde hair framing her face. Their expressions range from curiosity to caution, and I can't blame them. They just watched me tear apart one of their metal beasts.
"Well, as much as I'd love to continue ogling the nice Viking wolf-man's lickable abs, we have a shit ton of work to do." The dark-skinned human woman's voice carries a hint of amusement. She points over her shoulder, gold bangles jingling at her wrist. "Why don't we head to the house and get started?"
Ares chuckles and tucks the flask of ambrosia into his vest. "Why did you all scream at Boaz and stop him from containing Fen?" he asks.
A siren with hair like midnight water steps out from behind the group of strangers. "If you use magick past your personal stores on this planet, you'll start to pull from the world around you—nature, animals... people." Her eyes find Boaz, sharp with warning. "That's why everyone was shouting at you to stop. Once you do that, your magick becomes tainted. It's irreversible."
Well, fuck, that’s good to know. I feel like Nimue should’ve said something before we came. How much more do these rebels know about earth than everyone else?
Boaz nods and murmurs a thank you, his face tight.
"That's why Hawke's mate's magick is painful to be around," I say slowly, thinking back through when Melinda's magick spiked around us. The nausea. Pain. She was pulling our lifeforce.
"The woman Queen Nimue led to Prince Stormblood? Yes. She was born on Earth. Once you draw from the Earth, your magick is tainted, even if you go back to Avalon or another planet. It continues to draw from life instead of from Yggdrasil. We haven't yet found a way to correct it."
My wolf stirs, and I force down a growl. Finding our soul shards was already dangerous enough. Now we can't even use magick properly to defend ourselves.
"Is he going to change into a wolf again?" The other human woman asks. Her eyes meet mine without flinching, though I can smell the lingering edge of fear-sweat on her skin.
"I let myself get too close to the edge of control. I won't let it happen again." I won’t. I’ll drink that stuff from sun up till sun down. I won’t let my wolf hurt anyone.
"Good. Then it's time to eat."
"Thank you, Isabella." The siren waves us all toward the house. "I hope everyone is hungry." Then she points to a black bit of fabric on the ground in front of me. "Put that t-shirt on and let's get back to the house."
I grab the stretchy fabric and pull it over my head. It's soft, but strange. Wraith falls into step beside me as we follow the others out of the trees and up a winding path, his shoulder brushing mine in quiet solidarity. His natural closeness eases something tight in my chest. Even Boaz and Ares drift closer as we walk, their stances relaxed despite my earlier loss of control. My brothers know the battle I fight—they wage the same war within themselves. It’s just manifesting differently in each of us.
The house reveals itself slowly as we climb—a massive structure of stone and glass perched on the hillside. More strange metal beasts like the one I maimed sit gleaming in the sun outside it, and I have to force down the wolf's instinctive growl at their presence. Wraith's quiet chuckle tells me he caught my reaction. "Try not to maul any more of their metal wagons, brother," he murmurs, the warmth in his voice taking any sting from the words.
A man emerges from the front door, his stance marking him as a warrior despite his strange Earth clothing. The way he positions himself—centered, slightly forward on the balls of his feet—speaks of someone ready for trouble.
After my display at the lake, I can't blame him. But while the male’s ready stance is admirable, it’s also futile. If my wolf decided to hunt, that carefully balanced posture wouldn't buy him more than a heartbeat's head start.
