"Close enough."
Okay. Happening now. Station ready, pots boiling, blankets stacked, did I check the concentrated paste—yes I checked it, skull label, very clear, Dara knows—bandages stacked bysize on the left, paste jars on the right—
Us against an army—focus. Hands. Work.
The pack moves past us in a wave. Wolves shifting as they run, shifted before they hit the trees, gone into the forest at a sprint. Kestria grabs my arm in passing—one second, fierce, afraid—and then she's gone too, dark gray fur disappearing between the trunks.
Keer comes last. Stops in front of me. Doesn't speak. His hand on the back of my neck, brief, and then his mouth pressing hard against the top of my head—a second, no more—then he's running, shifting mid-stride, the massive black wolf tearing into the trees after his pack.
The bond drags after him under my ribs. Sharp now. Moving away.
Then the sound starts.
Distant. Through the trees. Snarling. Steel. The wet sound of bodies meeting each other at speed.
I can't see it. The fighting is too far in. Just trees and morning light and the faint flicker of torchlight somewhere deeper, between trunks, and the noise that means people are dying.
"How far out are they?" My voice comes out steadier than I am.
Dara's head is tilted. Listening.
"Far enough," she says. "We won't see it from here."
Good. That's the point. That's what Keer wanted.
"Numbers?"
She's quiet for a second. Listening past me. Past the clearing. Past all of it.
"A lot."
The first wolf stumbles back through the trees and shifts mid-stride—bones cracking, fur pulling back to skin—collapsing into human form on the ground beside me. Young. Maybe twenty. Arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder at a wrong angle, blood soaking through.
"Arrow in the shoulder—hold him down."
Dara grabs his other side. I snap the shaft—he screams, high and raw—push the head through, pull it out the back, stuff the wound with cloth, press.
"Pressure. Keep pressure. Don't let go until I say."
"How bad—"
"You'll live. Pressure."
Next one. Gash across the forearm, deep but clean, bone showing but not broken.
"Paste, then wrap it. You'll live."
"There's so many of them—"
"Paste. Wrap. Go back or don't, your choice."
He goes back.
Next.
The smell hits first. Copper and bile and that sour edge that means the intestines are torn. Varen. He's holding himself together with both hands.
Literally holding.
