The four mercenaries fell back, their confidence shaken by the wolf's sudden escalation in violence. But their leader rallied them with harsh commands, and they spread out again, trying to maintain their tactical advantage.
Nero didn't give them the chance. He moved like lightning between them, using his supernatural speed and the rocky terrain to his advantage. When the crossbow wielder tried to reload, Nero was on him before the bolt could be seated. When two men tried to flank him simultaneously, he used a boulder as a springboard to leap over their heads and strike from behind.
Within minutes, another two lay dead or dying among the rocks. The leader and one remaining fighter had retreated to higher ground, their faces pale with the realization that they had severely underestimated their quarry.
"Call it off," Nero snarled after shifting, his voice carrying the harmonics of both wolf and man. "You've lost."
The leader's scarred face twisted with desperate fury. "Doran pays well, but he pays better for success." He raised a horn to his lips and blew a long, piercing note that echoed across the mountains.
The sound sent ice through Nero's veins. It wasn't a retreat signal—it was a call for reinforcements.
The horn's echo had barely faded when answering calls rang out from multiple directions—north, east, and disturbingly, from the direction Casteel had fled. The mercenaries hadn't been alone. This had been a coordinated hunt, with multiple groups positioned to drive their quarry into waiting traps.
Nero felt another spike of terror, from Casteel this one sharp enough to make his vision blur with shared panic. His mate wassurrounded, cornered, and Nero was still trapped here dealing with the remnants of this ambush.
"Your pretty boy's walked right into our net," the leader taunted, though he kept his distance from Nero's silver form. "Captain's men have him by now. Probably putting chains on him as we speak."
Rage unlike anything Nero had ever experienced tore through him. The wolf's protective instincts merged with his own, creating something that fused both human emotion and animal fury. His howl this time carried such primal force that loose stones tumbled from the cliff faces above.
The remaining mercenary broke and ran, scrambling up the rocky slope with terror-driven speed. But the leader held his ground, his scarred face twisted with malicious satisfaction.
"Kill me if you want," the man called. "Won't change anything. By the time you reach your mate, he'll be halfway back to Doran's dungeons. The High Priest has special plans for the Silver Wolf's lover."
Nero's response was to shift and launch himself up the slope with impossible speed. The leader had time for one startled curse before death fell upon him. The man's sword never even cleared its sheath.
When it was over, Nero stood among the carnage, his sides heaving with exertion and fury. Blood matted his silver fur—some his own, most belonging to the mercenaries who had dared threaten what was his. Through their bond, he could still feel Casteel's terror, but it was distant now, muted by whatever was happening to his mate.
Hold on, he pushed the words through their connection, pouring every ounce of will into them.I'm coming.
The transformation back to human form left him gasping, his wounds healed by the shift but pain and weakness lingered. He forced himself to move, gathering weapons from the fallenmercenaries and trying to determine which direction the horn calls had come from.
The smell of smoke reached him first, acrid and wrong in the clean mountain air. Then came other scents that made his stomach clench—blood, fear, and the distinctive musk of violence recently done. His wolf-enhanced hearing picked up voices ahead, rough laughter that carried no joy, only cruelty.
He crested a small rise and froze at the sight below. A modest farmstead was nestled in a sheltered hollow, its fields showing the careful cultivation of people who had carved life from harsh mountain soil. But smoke rose from the collapsed roof of the main building, and dark stains spread across the packed earth of the yard.
Four soldiers in mismatched armor stood around the smoldering ruins, their weapons still bloodied from recent use. At their feet lay two bodies—a man whose throat gaped open like a second mouth, and a woman whose torn clothing and positioning told a story that made Nero's jaw clench with rage.
But it was the small figure cowering against the stone foundation that made his heart stop. A boy, perhaps six or seven years old, with dark hair and wide eyes that held the kind of terror that came from witnessing unspeakable things. One of the soldiers was advancing on him with deliberate slowness, clearly savoring the child's fear.
"Come now, little rabbit," the soldier called in a voice thick with false kindness. "We won't hurt you.Much."
His companions laughed at this, the sound harsh against the mountain stillness. "Might get good coin for him in the slave markets," another suggested. "Pretty little thing like that."
Nero felt something cold and terrible settle in his chest. The boy's face, streaked with tears and dirt, reminded him powerfully of Romash—his son, lost so many years ago tosickness. The same dark hair, the same wide eyes, the same fragile body that made Nero's heart ache.
But every second he delayed here was another second Casteel remained in danger.
The boy whimpered as the soldier reached for him, and Nero's feet were moving before his mind had fully processed the decision. He hadn’t been able to save Romash, but he could save this little one.
He came down the slope like an avalanche given corporeal form, his enhanced speed carrying him into the midst of the soldiers before they could react. The first man died with Nero's borrowed blade between his ribs, driven upward into his heart with surgical precision. The second managed to draw his sword before Nero's fist crushed his windpipe.
The third soldier, the one who had been taunting the boy, spun with his weapon raised, but Nero was already inside his guard. A knee to the man's groin doubled him over, and Nero's elbow to the back of his neck dropped him to the ground with a wet crack.
The fourth soldier turned to flee, but Nero's thrown dagger caught him between the shoulder blades. He pitched forward into the dirt and lay still.
Silence fell over the ruined farmstead, broken only by the crackling of dying flames and the boy's ragged breathing. Nero stood amid the carnage, blood spattering his clothes, his chest heaving with the aftermath of violence. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with smoke and the lingering horror of what these men had done.
The boy pressed himself harder against the stone foundation, his small body trembling. His eyes—so heartbreakingly similar to Romash's—darted between Nero and the bodies scattered around the yard.
