Nova Peak blutbefleckt

The taste of his blood turned sour on her tongue. It was all she could do not to turn away and retch. That this could happen to him! She'd never been a selfless wolf, but right then, she wished it could've been her instead. Let her blood flow and paint the loam crimson and maroon, let her life waver so he might savour his. Sagtannet would turn away from her in his absence, she felt sure of that. They needed him.

She needed him.

His words crashed through her like thunder. First, fury that abruptly went from a simmer to a boil when he shared what happened. What would it take for them to find a home devoid of threat? They'd gone miles to find this mountain, ensured it stood alone, and in less than a fortnight some upstart saw fit to stake a claim on a graveyard and throw punches at a man most beloved. Cold fear plunged through the centre of it, spreading fingers of ice throughout her veins when he announced that others joined the fray. The addition of other fighters could only mean it wasn't just an individual attempting to take the cliffs, but a pack. That made things more difficult.

I'll kill them, she seethed without even knowing she was saying it. The growl that reverberated up through her chest was a monstrous sound unlike anything she'd produced, the closest perhaps being when she'd fought Raptor on the beach all those years ago. It was cut abruptly off when Mahler began slurring in his mother tongue and rocked back onto his haunches, prompting Wylla to press her shoulder against his again. Stay with me, she whispered, fighting back the tip of dread's spear that sought to bury itself in her throat.

Wylla's first instinct when he bid her leave him and find his medicine was to protest. I can't leave you here! her soul cried, as firm as any hammer's impact on her heart. If I leave you, I'll lose you! Some better sense took hold of her long enough for her to realize that if she didn't leave now and attempt to find his meager stores, he would certainly die. Saliva could only aid clotting so much, and the wounds he'd sustained were incredible, and he was paling by the minute if his demeanour was anything to go by. So she turned from him and ran, stumbling in the rain, until she came upon the burnt forest.

It took longer than she would've liked—she was too stupid, too fucking imbecilic to know what to look for—but eventually, she found it. A hollowed out tree, and inside, fragrant herbs. Wylla wouldn't know a healing herb from a blade of grass, so she grabbed as many of them as she could carry, once again fighting back the urge to retch at the taste of greenery on her tongue. A flat-out gallop carried her back to where Mahler was hopefully still sitting, while a mantra beat through every step: don't die don't die don't die don't die don't die don't—