The pungent scent of herbs and sickness clung to the air around our meager fire, mixing with the smoke and settling in my throat like ash. Roan's ragged breathing was a grim counterpoint to the crackling flames. His skin was still too pale, too clammy, despite the fresh bandages.
Zale slumped against a rock, his head resting back, eyes closed. His own bandage was a dark, wet blotch that spread a little more every time he breathed. Marco crouched between them, face drawn with exhaustion, gaze fixed on the embers like they might offer answers.
Silence pressed in around us, heavy and brittle—broken only by the wind sighing through the pines and, far off, the low, bone-deep echo of a wolf's howl.
The sky to the east had begun to bleed indigo, and it felt less like a promise and more like a warning.
I wiped my hands on my trousers, the grit of crushed herbs and Roan's blood grinding into the fabric. The urgency I'd felt by the stream returned, clawing at my ribs.
"I heard something," I said, too loud in the stillness.
Marco's head snapped up. Zale's eyes cracked open, unfocused. Even Roan flinched.
"What?" Marco asked, his voice tight.
I dropped to a crouch, lowering my voice. "When I was looking for koiroot, near the stream. I wasn't alone."
Zale shifted with a pained grunt. "Wolves?"
" No," I said. "Cael. Beta Cael. I heard him giving orders to another rider."
Marco's back went rigid.
"He was confirming something. The Bonding." I glanced at the sky. "It's happening at dawn. At a place called the central stone. All survivors are required to attend. No exceptions."
Roan groaned—more despair than pain. Marco's jaw clenched, hands curling into fists.
"Survivors," he muttered. "How many of us even are left?"
"He didn't say. But I know what I heard." My voice dropped. "Cael said anyone not at the stone by dawn is forfeit. Kyklos would 'ensure' compliance.'"
Zale gave a shaky laugh that turned into a cough. "Forfeit," he echoed. "That's a pretty word for 'executed.'"
"Yeah." Marco looked up at me, eyes burning. "So what now? Drag Roan and Zale through enemy territory and hope the Wolves are feeling merciful?"
Roan shifted, barely conscious, his cracked lips moving. "Can't... leave me."
"No one's leaving anyone," I said quickly, reaching for him. "We're going. All of us."
"Do we even know where it is?" Marco asked. "The central stone?"
"I do." Zale raised a trembling hand and pointed east. "About half a mile. Through the storm-twisted pines. There's a clearing. Natural amphitheater. Can't miss it."
Marco blinked. "You've been there?"
"Not inside," Zale said. "But I've seen it. From the rocks above. Used to watch the patrols. It's restricted. Off-limits to anyone not bonded."
"What's it like?" I asked, crouching closer.
Zale's gaze grew distant.
"The place has weight. Not just because of the stone—though that thing's massive. Taller than two men. Dark granite. But it's the air there. Heavy. Like it remembers blood." He looked at each of us. "It's where the Wolves forge their bonds. Test them. Or break them. If you're not meant to be there, you feel it. Deep in your bones."
A chill slipped down my spine. "And that's where we're supposed to show up at dawn."
"Dragged half-dead and poisoned," Marco muttered. "Perfect."
Zale gave a thin smile. "If we don't, Kyklos comes. And from what I've heard… the central stone might actually be the safer option."
Silence fell again.
Then Marco exhaled, sharp and bitter. "So that's it. Our choices are to either show up at the sacred execution ground limping and bleeding, or stay here and wait for the nightmare in wolf skin to come tear us apart."
Roan whimpered softly. I looked at the sky again. Indigo deepening toward violet. Dawn was close.
"There's no choice," I said, rising to my feet. "We move."
Marco stood as well, slower, more reluctant. "Even if it kills us?"
"Especially if it doesn't," I replied. "We made it this far. We didn't survive the Culling just to die in the dirt because we were too scared to crawl to a rock."
Zale snorted, coughing again. "Hell of a pep talk."
Marco sighed. "Alright. Let's get Roan ready. We'll fashion a sling, to hold his arm and he'll lean on me."
"And I'll scout the path," I offered.
"No," Marco said, meeting my eyes. "We stay together. One wrong step out there, and Kyklos won't even need to finish the job. Besides, Kylendor here might need you."
I nodded. He was right.
As we started to prepare, wrapping cloth tighter, securing makeshift supports, Zale muttered under his breath, barely loud enough to hear.
"They say the central stone only accepts those worthy. That it sees something in you… or it doesn't."
I looked down at my bloodstained hands.
"Then let's hope…..," I whispered, " Hope it's blind today."
The fire had shrunk to embers, casting long, dancing shadows as we worked in grim silence. Marco tore strips from his spare tunic, his movements economical and sharp. I knelt beside Roan, checking his bandage. The pungent herbal paste had seeped through, staining the cloth dark, but beneath the edge of the dressing…
My breath hitched. The sickly green tinge creeping down his chest had halted. The flesh immediately around the wound looked angry and inflamed, but the terrifying putrid mottle was receding, fading back towards a raw, healthy pink at the edges. His skin, though still pale and slick with sweat, felt less clammy—more like a fever breaking than death taking hold. A choked sound escaped me—half sob, half sigh of desperate relief.
Thank you, Lorraine. Thank you, earth and roots and stubborn life.
The prayer wasn't for any god, just flung into the cold pre-dawn air—a raw offering to whatever force had granted this small reprieve.
"Color's coming back," I murmured, Roan's eyes fluttered open, before he closed them again. Marco paused, glancing over. A flicker of something not quite dread crossed his exhausted face. Zale, propped against a rock, managed a weak nod.
"You're a miracle worker," he rasped.
Marco finished knotting a rough sling from the torn fabric and his belt, looping it over Roan's shoulder and around his torso to secure his arm tight against his side. Roan tested his weight, bracing against Marco's shoulder. His legs shook but held. His jaw clenched as he exhaled through the pain. "I can walk," he muttered, more declaration than fact.
We helped him up, Marco steadying Roan's good side, bearing half his weight. I moved to Zale, offering my shoulder. His arm came around my neck, solid and scorching through the fabric. His wound radiated heat, but his grip was firm, his steps determined.
The shadows ahead moved.
A figure stepped from behind a massive, lichen-covered boulder, blocking the path. Tall, broad-shouldered, radiating cold authority even in the gloom. Moonlight caught the sharp planes of Beta Cael's face, the scars like pale seams carved in stone. His expression was stony and authoritative as it had been the very first time I'd seen him.
Two Bondeds materialized behind him, their wolves silent as phantoms, their eyes glinting like chips of frostbitten gold. Kyklos was not among them.
All around the Field of Thorns, weary groups straightened, turned, looked. His voice carried like frost cracking bark.
"Attention."
He didn't need to say that, his very presence demanded attention.
"You will move now," Cael said, dragging his absolute gaze over our miserable selves. "All of you. Make your way to the central stone. Follow the widest path through the twisted pines. It leads directly to the clearing. The stone is impossible to miss. Reach there before dawn for the bonding, or else..."
A wave of murmurs rose from the scattered survivors. Someone called out irritated.
"Now? It's nearly dawn!"
"You should have told us earlier!"
Cael's gaze swept over the protestors without blinking. "Then shouldn't you hurry?"
A hush followed. Then, slowly, people began to move, grumbling, stumbling, leaving the wounded and the nearly broken in the grass silvered by moonlight. Guess kindness only mattered till it didn't threaten their own survival.
But Cael's eyes found us.
Our group was already braced to leave—Roan half-leaning on Marco, Zale clinging to me, sweat shining on his brow, but upright. No one said a word.
Cael's stare lingered on Roan and Marco, then Zale, then me. His lips curved into the barest suggestion of a smile. "Good luck," he said.
And then he turned, vanishing into the gloom with his riders and their wolves. No further instructions. No pity.
Marco adjusted his grip. "Rot him. Rot them all."
"Move," I said.
And we did.
We pushed forward, into the last stretch of night, pain dogging every step. The Field of Thorns gave way beneath our feet. Roan gritted his teeth, leaning harder on Marco. Zale's weight dragged at me, but we moved together, dogged and grim.
Ahead, the twisted pines loomed like silent sentries, clawing at the pale sky with skeletal limbs. The path widened beneath them, just as Zale and Beta Cael had promised—soft underfoot, muffled by years of needles.
Dawn crept closer with every breath.
And we stumbled toward the central stone—battered, poisoned, bleeding—but defiantly, desperately, alive.