Wyatt reached Narla’s side in panther form—two hundred pounds of midnight muscle sliding between her and the nearest constructs. He didn’t shift back, didn’t speak, just positioned himself as a living shield while his whiskey-gold gaze swept the battlefield.
The bond pulsed between them.
I protect what’s mine.
“I need to get closer to Derren,” she told him. “My magic—I might be able to?—”
A construct lunged. Wyatt intercepted it mid-leap, jaws closing around its throat, shaking until the thing fell apart. Another grabbed for her arm. He severed its hand, then its head, then kept moving because there were always more.
Cassia had called the storm fully now. Lightning forked down from the gathering clouds, striking constructs, turning them to ash. Her weather magic had found its focus—destruction in service of protection.
But the constructs kept coming. For every one that fell, two more clawed their way up from the harbor. Derren’s army was larger than any of them had anticipated.
And Derren himself advanced through the chaos untouched.
“Your little army is impressive.” His voice cut through the battle sounds, that harmonic crawling across her skin. “But it doesn’t matter. Direct magic only feeds me. Your wolves, your lions, your bears—they’re physical. I’ll drain them one by one.”
To demonstrate, he reached out and caught a wolf mid-leap. The animal screamed—a sound no wolf should make—as Derren’s touch drained its life force. The wolf crumpled, aged decades in seconds, and dropped to the ground as a dried husk. Touch was faster than projection—more complete. She hadn’t seen him use contact before.
Narla’s candles. Her truth magic. That was the plan—strip his glamour, make him visible, let the dragon fire do the rest.
She’d returned the candles to Spellbound Lights after the war council, not wanting to carry surge-charged inventory into every waking moment. Now she wished she hadn’t. And Derren stood between her and any hope of reaching them.
“The candle witch.” Derren’s attention fixed on her, predator to prey. “I’ve been curious about your new talents. Show me what you can do.”
He gestured, and a wave of constructs surged toward her.
Wyatt’s panther exploded into motion.
FORTY-TWO
NARLA
Wyatt fought like a demon unchained.
Years of caged predator, of controlled violence, of telling himself he didn’t need anyone—all of it burned away in the face of a simple truth.
His mate was in danger.
He tore through constructs with surgical precision, claws shredding dead flesh, jaws crushing animated bone. They weren’t alive—couldn’t be killed in any meaningful sense—but they could be dismantled. Reduced to pieces too small to keep moving.
The panther didn’t care about strategy. Didn’t care about the bigger battle. Its entire world had narrowed to one imperative.
Protect her.
A construct lunged for Narla’s back. Wyatt intercepted, teeth closing around what had once been a throat, shaking until the thing fell apart in his jaws.
The bond pulsed between them—her fear, her determination, her magic building toward release. She was planning. Working through the problem even as chaos raged around them.
He just had to keep her alive long enough to execute whatever she was building toward.
A bear construct—massive, wrong, twisted beyond recognition—rose up before him. Wyatt circled, looking for weakness. The thing had been an alpha once, its size and power evident even in death.
It swung. He dodged. Circled again.
Then Leo was there—the lion alpha in shifted form, golden and massive and fighting with the same protective fury that burned in Wyatt’s chest. They took the bear construct apart together, working in wordless coordination, predators united against a common enemy.
Beck arrived next, his wolf form moving with deadly efficiency. The beta had been across town when the attack started, but his packmate bond had called him here—where his alpha was, where his community needed him.
