"I'm sorry," Nero whispered as they paused behind a fallen log. "I never wanted this."
"I made my choice," Casteel replied, though his voice held a note of hesitation that shamed him. He would never regret saving Nero's life. "You would have died."
Nero's face tightened with emotion. "And you think I want to live like this? Knowing what you sacrificed?"
Before Casteel could respond, Nero's head snapped up, his enhanced senses detecting something the others couldn't perceive. "Riders approaching from the east," he whispered. "Moving quickly."
"How many?" Eryken demanded.
"Four, maybe five." Nero's eyes had taken on a faint silver glow in the shadows—another manifestation of the wolf-soul's power. "They're cutting across our path."
"We need cover," Lucan muttered, scanning the forest. "There's a ravine about half a mile north. If we can reach it before they spot us—"
"Too late," Nero interrupted, his body tensing as he positioned himself protectively in front of Casteel. "They've changed direction. They've caught our scent."
The realization hit Casteel like a physical blow. Of course they had. The Silver Guard would have brought trackers—perhaps even those with wolf blood or shifters themselves who could follow a trail no ordinary human could detect. That was why any youth that shifted were conscripted into the army.
"Nero," Casteel said urgently, "you need to go. Take Eryken and Lucan and reach Morven's estate. I'll lead them away."
Nero's expression hardened into something dangerous. "Not happening."
"I'm slowing you down," Casteel insisted, desperation threading his voice. "Without me—"
"There is no without you," Nero growled, the wolf's influence evident in his tone. "Not for me."
Casteel felt Nero's determination—a shadow of what they once shared, but unmistakable nonetheless. More guilt?
"We stand together," Eryken declared, drawing his sword. "Lucan, find high ground. Your bow will be of more use there." But there wasn't time.
The sounds of pursuit grew louder—hoofbeats approaching rapidly, voices calling to each other through the trees. Casteel felt utterly helpless, weaponless and powerless.
"Here," Nero pressed a dagger into his hand. "Strike low, then up under the ribs."
The weight of the blade felt unfamiliar in Casteel's grip. He'd never been a fighter—had relied on the wolf's instincts during the few confrontations he'd faced. Now he was just a stable boy with a knife facing trained killers.
The first rider burst through the undergrowth, silver armor gleaming in the dappled morning light. Nero moved with inhuman speed, launching himself at the guard before the man could even raise his weapon. There was a terrifying grace to his attack—fluid and predatory in a way that made Casteel's heart clench with recognition.
The guard toppled from his horse with a strangled cry, Nero's borrowed blade finding the gap between helmet and neck with surgical precision. But three more riders were already crashing through the trees, their mounts snorting and stamping as they caught the scent of violence.
Eryken engaged the nearest guard with a clash of steel on steel, their blades ringing in the forest stillness. From somewhere came the sharp whistle of Lucan's arrows finding their marks, followed by screams of pain and rage.
Casteel pressed his back against a massive oak, clutching the dagger Nero had given him with white knuckles. A fourth guard had dismounted and was advancing on foot, having spotted him among the shadows. The man's face was hidden behind his helmet's visor, but Casteel could see the predatory confidence in his movements.
"The Silver Wolf," the guard sneered, raising his sword. "High Priest Doran has special plans for you."
The words sent cold fury through Casteel's veins—not the wolf's rage that had once sustained him, but something purely human and therefore more personal. He might be ordinary now, powerless, but he wouldn't cower.
The guard lunged forward with practiced efficiency, his blade aimed at Casteel's side, clearly just to injure, as they wanted him alive. Casteel dove sideways, the sword-point gouging bark from the tree trunk where his body had been moments before. He rolled, came up in a crouch, and drove his dagger toward the gap beneath the guard's arm.
The blade scraped against chainmail and skittered away harmlessly. The guard laughed, bringing his sword around in a brutal arc that would have taken Casteel's head off—if Nero hadn't appeared like a silver-eyed demon, catching the guard's wrist and twisting until bones snapped with audible pops.
"Mine," Nero snarled, his voice carrying harmonics that belonged to no human throat. The guard's scream cut off abruptly as Nero's blade found his neck.
Sudden silence fell over the forest clearing. Four Silver Guard lay dead among the fallen leaves, their blood steaming in the cool morning air. Eryken wiped his sword clean with methodical precision, while Lucan descended from his perch to retrieve his arrows.
"That was too easy," Eryken observed grimly. "A patrol this small—they were scouts, not hunters. The main force is still coming."
Nero nodded, his enhanced hearing already picking up distant sounds of pursuit. "At least thirty riders, maybe more. Moving in formation through the trees."
