Chapter 69

He’s covered in his own blood now, splattered across his chest, streaking down his arms, and pooling in the torn fabric of what’s left of his clothing. Wounds open and close sluggishly, his healing slow, drained. Yet even now, weakened and wounded, Damon moves like smoke—fluid, and elusive. My blades flash in a deadly rhythm, singing with breeze and ice, but he weaves between each strike with unnerving grace.

It’s infuriating.

My jaw tightens. Fine. If close combat won’t land the final blow, I’ll switch tactics.

I shift my posture and summon the dead cold winter inside me. Shards of ice begin to orbit my body, a swirling dance of crystalline daggers. The air drops in temperature, the moisture condensing into glittering frost around us. Then—with a snap of my wrist—they fire outward in unpredictable bursts. Not a straight barrage, but a disordered rain of piercing armaments, each one spinning at random angles, constructed to overwhelm.

He dodges the first wave, deflects the second—but one finds its mark. It buries itself deep in the meat of his upper arm with a nauseating squelch.

Damon roars.

The sound is raw, primal, filled with rage and pain. He clutches his arm and yanks the ice dagger free with a wet pop. Blood spills down his forearm in sheets, but he barely seems to notice. Instead, he turns the ice blade in his hand, inspecting it like a curious child might study a new toy.

“I’m starting to think,” he growls through clenched teeth, “it would be easier to just get rid of you.”

His voice is strained, yet somehow smug.

He twirls the shard between his fingers, letting it catch the moonlight, before directing it towards me. “Turning this world over to the supernatural would be easier with you at my side. As my mate.” He grins darkly. “But it wouldn’t be impossible without you.”

He starts to stalk toward me, each step measured, feral. Raising the bloodied shard—my own weapon—he points it at my chest.

“I’ll give you one final chance, Athena,” he sneers. “Come with me. Aid in my conquest, and I will spare Silas. I’ll return Aiden to you. I’ll leave your precious little pack untouched.”

His smile twists, eyes burning with madness. “Refuse, and you die here. By your own weapon. And your whole pack will follow.”

An icy chuckle escapes me, bitter and jagged. “Big words from a mongrel who stands virtually alone.”

His confidence falters.

I see it—the moment the realization slams into him. His head jerks as he scans the battlefield. Corpses litter the earth like discarded husks. His wolves, his so-called pack—lie dead or scattered. The few that remain are retreating, tails tucked between their legs.

Panic flares in his eyes.

And just like that, he shifts. No longer a smug conqueror. Now, he is a cornered animal—wounded, desperate, dangerous.

He lunges.

I brace, twin daggers raised, anticipating the strike. But just as his claws extend toward me, a blur of movement slices between us.

A hand clamps around Damon’s wrist and flings him backward with bone-snapping force.

I spin around just in time to see Silas.

My mate.

Alive. Upright. Almost fully healed, his eyes blazing with renewed strength. The raw emotion on his face sends a ripple of relief through my chest.

But there’s no time to celebrate.

I pivot on my heel and close the gap between Damon and myself in two strides. He’s off balance. Wide open.

I don’t hesitate.

My dagger slices downward, tearing a gaping line across his torso from shoulder to hip. Blood cascades from the wound, soaking his front in crimson.

He stumbles, gasping, and I raise my arm to strike again—to finish this. May he rot.

But before my blade can descend, an invisible force slams into me.

It hits like a wall of stone, hurling me backward. I hit the ground hard, air forced from my lungs. For a moment, I lie paralyzed, then scramble to my feet, eyes locking on the cause.

Damon stands where I left him, swaying. The gash down his torso leaks rivers of blood.

He should be dead.

I take a step forward—and crash against the undetected wall again. I recoil; breath caught in my throat. My hand reaches out instinctively, touching nothing but cold resistance.

Magic.

I whirl, eyes scanning the battlefield and there she is.

Sybil.

Standing on the far edge of the field, her hands raised toward me, fingers shaking. Her face is pale and drawn, but her gaze is clear: exhausted, furious, determined.

“No,” I breathe, eyes widening.

She sees it’s over. That Damon has lost. That their plan has  completely failed.

And she won’t let me have him.

With a slow, final motion, she turns her hands—now toward Damon.

His body jerks.

Then hers.

Their flesh begins to peel away into mist, starting at the fingertips. Like wind eroding stone, their forms disintegrate, twisting into the night air.

“No!” I shout, slamming both hands against the barrier. “Don’t you dare run!”

But the wall holds. Sybil’s magic is powerful. There is no breaking through it.

And just like that, they vanish.

The enemy I was seconds away from killing—the tyrant who nearly took everything from me, fled.

Again.

“Damn it!” The scream tears from my throat, filled with rage and denial.

I stagger forward, but the magic is already fading. Nothing remains but the lingering shimmer of dust and a horrible silence.

I look around the battlefield.

Blood and Bodies. The cost of this night is written in every fallen warrior, every lifeless rogue, every shattered weapon. Was this all worth the cost? Of only stealing me away again?

I shake off the disappointment and turned to Silas. He too is fighting the disappointment that his brother was not ended. Disappointed, he didn’t do it himself long ago.

The aftermath of battle is a sobering quietness.

The few bodies of our fallen warriors are being carefully gathered by the survivors. Each is treated with reverence, their names held in grief and honor. There is no service yet—only the gray ritual of recovery. A promise that they will be mourned properly, when there is time to mourn.

The bodies of the Lunar rogues, however, are another matter.

Already, pyres are being built. Their corpses are dragged into piles and set alight without pause, without prayer. The flames roar as flesh sizzles and bone blackens. There is no room for respect or compassion. They were butchers, thus they will be treated as such.

My eyes roam the carnage, counting survivors, searching for my friends and family. My heart thrums against my ribs with every step until I see them.

James emerges from the tree line, holding Freya in his arms. She’s bruised, her arm hanging limp, but she lifts her head and offers a soft, tired smile when our eyes meet.

Aiden stands nearby, eyes sweeping the battlefield like a stranger in a foreign land. There is confusion in his posture, like he doesn’t quite remember how he got here. Or what has transpired.

Lotte walks beside Alaric, one arm wrapped around his middle, the other supporting him. His gait is rough, blood crusted along his temples, but he’s walking. He’s alive.

It looks like we made it.

I exhale slowly, a shaky breath escaping through parted lips. Then I turn.

Silas stands a few feet away, watching me. Blood paints his skin like war paint, naked, but his shoulders are straight. Strong. Alive.

I close the distance, eyes scanning the wound on his shoulder. My fingers glide gently across the torn flesh, checking the damage. The magic I poured into him held—the muscle has nearly sealed, the bruising fading. His wolf must have done the rest.

Before I can finish the thought, his hand catches mine.

In a single, urgent motion, he pulls me into him. His arms wrap around me and squeeze with a fierceness that steals my breath. My own arms slide around his waist, squeezing back just as hard. We hold each other there, amid the ash and ruin, letting our silence speak where words can’t.

His voice rumbles low against my hair. “We took down most of his followers.”

A pause.

“He’s weaker now. Less of a threat.” He leans back just enough to meet my gaze. His eyes, still dark and steady, burn with certainty. “We’ll get him.”

His confidence is a salve. His certainty, a shield.

But as I nod, part of me holds onto doubt like a splinter underneath the skin. Now matter how many times I try to pry it out, it lingers annoyingly.

That makes one of us sure.