Nero squeezed his shoulder reassuringly before shifting and melting into the underbrush. The wolf's hunting instincts guided him effortlessly—within minutes, he had spotted a mountain hare frozen in the shadow of a juniper bush. His movements were preternaturally swift as he closed the distance and made the kill with merciful efficiency.
Returning to the stream, he found Casteel had removed his boots to soak his blistered feet in the cold water, and was huddled in his cloak. The sight sent a pang through Nero's chest as he shifted back.
"Not much," Nero said, displaying his catch, "but it will give us strength."
They ate in companionable silence after Nero prepared and cooked the hare with practiced skill. The meat was lean but nourishing, and Nero made sure Casteel took the larger portion despite his protests, pointing out he was capable of shifting andeating another raw if he had to. Not that he relished the thought and the wrinkle in Casteel's nose after Nero had told him that was completely adorable. If they weren't being hunted by deranged mercenaries and if Casteel's feet didn't hurt, strange as it seemed Nero might enjoy this freedom.
"We should reach the ridgeline by nightfall," Nero said as they resumed their journey. "From there, we should see Morven's valley. Another day's travel, perhaps."
The path grew steeper as they ascended, winding between massive boulders and along precipitous ledges. Nero moved with instinctive sureness, his enhanced senses warning him of loose stones or unstable ground. Behind him, Casteel followed more cautiously, occasionally accepting a steadying hand when the terrain proved challenging.
It was near late afternoon when Nero froze, his head lifting as he caught a scent on the breeze—metal, leather, horses, and the distinctive musk of men who had traveled hard for days. The wolf within him growled a warning.
"What is it?" Casteel whispered, instantly alert to the change in Nero's posture.
"Ambush," Nero replied, his voice barely audible. "Ahead and to our right. At least eight men, maybe more."
Through their bond, he felt Casteel's surge of fear that he quickly mastered. "Silver Guard?"
"No," Nero said, nostrils flaring as he processed the unfamiliar scents. "Different armor. Different weapons. Not Doran's men."
"Mercenaries," Casteel guessed. "Hired hunters."
Nero nodded grimly. The Silver Guard were born of fanatics, but they were also conspicuous.
"Can we go around them?" Casteel asked, already scanning for alternative routes.
Nero shook his head. "They've positioned themselves at a natural chokepoint. The only other path would take us back down into the valley—directly toward the Silver Guard patrols."
Casteel's jaw tightened. "Then we fight," Casteel said, drawing the dagger Nero had given him.
Nero's expression darkened as he assessed their situation. "There are too many. Even with the wolf's strength, I can't take them all at once, not while protecting you."
"I can fight," Casteel insisted, though they both knew the truth—even when he had the wolf he wasn't a fighter.
Nero turned to him, his eyes flashing silver in the midday sun. "Listen to me. When I engage them, you run. There's a game trail about fifty yards back—it branches east toward those pines. Follow it as far as you can until I find you."
"I won't leave you," Casteel protested, reaching for Nero's arm.
"You must." Nero's voice was gentle but implacable. "If they take us both, Doran will use you to control me. My wolf needs to ensure your safety above all else." He pressed his forehead briefly against Casteel's. "I'll find you. I promise."
Before Casteel could argue further, the ambushers made their move. Eight men in mismatched armor emerged from their concealment, spreading out in a practiced formation designed to cut off escape. Their leader, a scarred veteran with a shock of white hair, stepped forward with the confidence of someone accustomed to violence.
"The Silver Wolf and his mate," the man called, his voice carrying easily across the rocky terrain. "High Priest Doran will pay handsomely for your return."
Nero pushed Casteel behind him, his body already beginning the transformation. "Run," he whispered urgently. "Now."
The mercenaries advanced cautiously, weapons drawn, but they were looking at Casteel, obviously still assuming he was the wolf. It was the distraction and surprise Nero needed. Nero'stransformation completed with startling speed—far faster than Casteel had ever managed—his human form blurring into a massive silver wolf that stood protectively between Casteel and danger.
"Go!" The command thundered through their bond with desperate intensity.
Casteel hesitated only a heartbeat longer before turning and sprinting back down the path. Behind him came shouts of alarm, the clash of steel, and the terrible snarling of a wolf defending its mate. He forced himself not to look back, knowing that any distraction might cost Nero his life.
The game trail appeared where Nero had promised, a narrow track barely visible among the rocks and scrub. Casteel plunged onto it, his lungs burning with exertion as he pushed his purely human body to its limits.
Casteel ran until his legs trembled and his breath came in ragged gasps. The trail wound through dense pines before emerging onto a rocky shelf overlooking a steep ravine. He paused, leaning against a boulder as he tried to catch his breath, his ears straining for any sound of pursuit.
Through their bond came a spike of pain—Nero had been wounded. Casteel's heart clenched as he felt his mate's agony echo faintly across their connection. The urge to return, to help somehow, was overwhelming.
