The last tries to flee. Kragna’s claws flash in the fog, and the head parts from the shoulders with a wet crack. The body stumbles a step before collapsing.
I’m left gasping in the snow, rifle half-raised, ears ringing. My shot was messy. My hands are slick with sweat, my knees unsteady.
Kragna stands there in the fog, chest heaving, gore dripping from his claws. The silence after is louder than the fight.
I stumble back, collapsing against the trunk of a frost-bitten tree. My breath comes too fast, my body trembling all over. I curl my arms around my knees, trying to hold myself together.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch me. Just lowers himself down beside me, massive frame folding onto the snow with surprising quiet. The heat of him radiates against my side, steady, immovable.
For a long time, we just sit. Snowflakes drift down through the fog, melting on my lashes, on his shoulders. Blood stains the ground, dark against white. The smell of powder and steel clings to the air.
My rifle rests across my knees, useless now. My hands won’t stop shaking.
But he’s there. Not demanding. Not judging. Justthere.
And somehow, in that silence, I don’t fall apart.
8
KRAGNA
By the time we reach the rim of human land, the air smells of smoke. Not cooking fires, not hearths. The sharp, biting smoke of burning timber and gunpowder.
The trees thin and the land flattens into frost-rimed fields scarred by trenches. The farmhouse rises in the distance, or what’s left of it—walls broken, roof collapsed, windows dark. A dozen humans crouch in the rubble, rifles bristling through shattered beams. Their faces are pale with exhaustion, but their eyes are hard.
And the siege is already here.
Dark elf banners ripple through the mist beyond the fields, their soldiers moving like spiders in formation. Arrows hiss through the air, cracking into wood, while gunfire snaps back in jagged rhythm. The farmhouse shakes with every shot, every impact.
River stiffens beside me. Her eyes fix on the ruin like it’s holy ground. Her pace quickens, even as her limp drags at her.
“Rizzo’s rangers,” she says, voice rough, almost reverent. “They’re holding.”
I grunt, watching the lines. The humans are stretched thin, maybe twenty left, pinned down by twice their number. They won’t last the night.
We break cover, moving toward the farmhouse. That’s when the shouting starts.
“CONTACT!”
A man on the rooftop swings his rifle toward us, eyes wide. Others follow, barrels glinting, barrels steady. And all of them are aimed at me.
“Monster!” one bellows. “He’s with the elves!”
I bare my teeth, heat rolling off me. “Try it,” I growl.
The air hums with tension. Fingers tighten on triggers. I can already taste the powder smoke, already imagine how many I’ll kill before they put me down. My claws itch for it.
And then River steps forward.
Her voice cracks across the field like a whip, cutting through fear, through fury, through everything. “Stand down!”
The rifles hesitate.
She moves into their sights, hands raised but steady, eyes blazing with something fierce and commanding. “He’s with me. He saved my life. Lower your damn weapons.”
A murmur runs through the defenders, disbelief and confusion. But none of them shoot. Not with her standing there, fire in her eyes and steel in her voice.
One man lowers his gun first, slow. Then another. The tension bleeds from the air, sharp edges softening but not vanishing. I feel their stares on me like knives—fear, hatred, distrust. The same old song.
