The sound of weeping—of shrieking—rises from the trees, a sound so unnatural, so gut wrenching, it makes my fur bristle. It’s unlike anything I have ever heard before.
A gasp escapes me as figures emerge from between the blackened trees. More of them.
More of those twisted, unnatural creatures, their bodies moving in broken ways, their soulless eyes fixed on us all, their very presence a stain on this sacred land. They step into the clearing, dragging the scent of decay with them.
And then I see Orïon.
He’s shackled, bound in thick, thorn-covered chains that dig into his fur, wrap around his limbs, his torso, his muzzle. He trembles beneath the weight of his restraints.
They have muzzled him. Muzzled him.
A vólkin—one of our strongest, one of our own—bound like a beast. And at the end of the chain, holding him like a captured animal, stands a man. A human.
My claws curl, my stomach turns with rage. There are three of them. Three human males, walking through the trees as if they own this land, as if they have the right to defile it with their presence.
And between them, walking as if he belongs there, as if this is where he was always meant to stand, Gregor. My body locks, my breath stolen from my chest, my pulse thundering so violently I feel it in my ears.
The green humans, the vólkins, all of them, turn toward the unfolding nightmare, growls rising from their throats, their snarls breaking through the air.
Essin steps forward, her raw voice cracks as she roars, “Orïon!”
But Orïon does not answer.
Because he cannot. Because they have silenced him.
And Gregor is standing with them. I stare at him, my breath short, my vision darkening at the edges. And I do not understand.
“The tsar sends his regards,” the man holding Orïon’s chains sneers, and shoves him forward with a twist of his wrist. The heavy clang of metal rings through the growls of the warriors. His grin is ugly, stretched too wide over his teeth. “I believe it’s quite clear who holds the prize now.” His every word is designed to dig deep, to hurt. His gaze moves to Gregor, and his smirk widens. “Right, Gregor? Look at your friends.”
Gregor doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even lift his head. He just stares at his feet. The monsters beside the humans remain still, waiting. And then the human laughs.
“Noël and her mate are gone, aren’t they?” His fingers flex around Orïon’s chain as he yanks it tighter, forcing him to stumble. He barks out another laugh. “I’m very skilled with my arrow.”
My stomach twists. I have always known humans to be cruel.
But never like this. They are the real monsters.
The warriors around me shift, ready to strike. A low, warning growl rumbles from deep within their chests, fangs bared, claws twitching for violence. They are seconds away from launching themselves. And then, Elder Aïna lifts her paw.
The warriors freeze.
She steps forward.
“I have done it before,” she says, closing her eyes. Her voice is calm. “And I will do it once again.”
I shake my head, my entire body tensing.
I want to stop her. But I don’t move.
The monsters charge, and their loud cries rip through the night like the wails of the damned. Their warped bodies jerk and sway, some moving on all fours, others stumbling upright with sickening, broken motions.
My breath catches in my throat, my knees threaten to give out. Every muscle in my body screams to run, to fight, to do something. But Elder Aïna does not move. Her paws lift toward the sky.
Not a single warrior dares to disobey.
Even the green-skinned warriors stand still, as if instinct itself warns them not to interfere. And then, the wind shifts.
A sudden, violent gust tears through the land, howling like an enraged spirit. The leaf spirits scatter in every direction, flung into the air by the force.
