Chapter 108 – Ash and Fire
Giselle didn’t look back.
Rhea’s lifeless form lay sprawled in the tall grass at the base of the ridge, crimson staining the earth beneath her. The sword in Giselle’s hand still hummed with quiet power, the edge slick with blood and victory, but her heart was far from still. There was no time to process what she’d done. No time to feel the tremble in her hands or the ache behind her ribs.
Because the war wasn’t over.
Roars echoed through the trees, wild and furious. The ridge where they’d tracked Rhea had put them on the western edge of the battlefield, the clash of wolves and rogues thundering just beyond the next line of trees. Rowan’s hand gripped hers tightly before he let go and shifted mid-stride, his massive dark wolf bursting forth with a snarl that vibrated through the ground.
Giselle followed, her own steps swift as she descended the hill behind him.
The forest they plunged into was a battlefield smeared in blood and fury. Bodies littered the ground, some still twitching, others already still. Wolves collided midair, claws raking, teeth snapping. The scent of blood—feral and raw—hung so thick in the air it coated her tongue.
A large grey rogue lunged at Rowan from the left, but he was faster, swiping his claws across the wolf’s face and slamming it to the dirt. Giselle didn’t stop to watch the finishing blow. Another rogue—thin, wiry, frothing at the mouth—spotted her and veered with a maddened scream.
She didn’t hesitate.
Her blade swung in an arc so clean it barely caught the air. The rogue’s eyes widened a split second before the sword met flesh. A spray of red painted the trees behind him, and he dropped without a sound.
Another. Then another.
They came at her like shadows with teeth, like nightmares ripped from the bones of the broken. But Giselle was not the girl who had once trembled under Rhea’s gaze. She was Rowan’s mate. The Luna of this pack. And she would not break.
She cut and twisted, ducked and rolled. Her body moved with instinct, with training—and with a kind of fury she had never known she carried. Rowan’s hulking wolf tore through the battlefield beside her, his black fur streaked with blood, his movements efficient and brutal. Whenever one of them faltered, the other was there—covering the blind spots, striking where needed.
A scream pierced the air—one of their own.
Giselle whirled to find one of the younger warriors, barely more than a boy, cornered by two rogues. Her feet moved before her thoughts could catch up. She crossed the field in seconds, her sword biting into the nearest rogue’s side. The other snarled and lunged at her, but Rowan intercepted mid-air, his jaws clamping down on its throat with a sickening crunch.
The young warrior—Matren, she recognized now—looked at her with wide, stunned eyes.
“Run!” she shouted. “Fall back to the second line. Tell Luther to pull the wounded to the bunker—go!”
He nodded and stumbled off, blood on his face but his legs still working.
They pressed forward again.
The trees gave way to the northern edge of the battlefield, where fire flickered through the undergrowth—one of the traps must have ignited. Smoke curled into the sky, casting an eerie glow across the chaos. Kalen’s warriors were still holding the right flank, and Liam’s group was driving the rogues back with practiced precision.
But more were pouring in now—dozens, maybe more.
And somewhere, beyond this stretch of bloodied earth, Giselle knew the Bonecaster’s wolves were waiting for their moment to strike.
Rowan shifted back beside her, panting and bloodied, and his voice was grim. “We have to push them back to the ravine. If we give them high ground, we’ll lose the line.”
Giselle met his gaze, sword still tight in her grip. “Then we don’t give them an inch.”
He gave her a fierce, proud look before shifting again, charging into the fray.
Giselle followed, the wind at her back and her heartbeat steady in her chest.
The war wasn’t over.
But neither was she.
The rhythm of war was chaos—screams, snarls, the clash of bodies and the wet sound of blood on earth. Giselle’s arms ached from the weight of her sword, her muscles burning with every strike, but she refused to fall back. Rowan’s presence, his dark wolf a blur of fury beside her, kept her grounded. Focused.
But then… the air shifted.
It was subtle at first—a stillness in the trees beyond the battlefield, the kind of quiet that didn’t belong in the midst of war. Giselle stilled, her blade dripping as she glanced toward the far ridge that separated the woods from the river ravine.
And then she saw them.
Dark shapes moving in tight formation, too uniform to be rogues. The Bonecaster’s wolves.
Her stomach turned to ice.
They stepped from the trees like shadows come to life—bigger, heavily armored wolves with silver-painted war marks streaked down their fur and faces. Controlled. Trained. Vicious. Their eyes glowed like embers, and their steps were soundless despite their size.
There were dozens of them.
Pack after pack filtered through the treeline, forming a spear-shaped wedge that moved in perfect sync, aiming to cleave through Rowan’s left flank—where Liam and his warriors were holding the line.
“They’re here,” Giselle whispered hoarsely into the packlink. “Bonecaster’s wolves—northwest tree line. Forming attack wedge.”
Kalen responded instantly. “All right units, tighten the line. Pull the wounded. We shift formation on Rowan’s mark.”
She turned to find Rowan already sprinting to that side of the battlefield, shifting midair as he charged toward Liam. He wasn’t going to let their line crumble. And neither was she.
Giselle ran after him, barking orders to warriors along the way, rallying them to regroup.
Then the Bonecaster’s wolves struck.
They moved like a blade through flesh—fast and coordinated. The first wave hit Liam’s group with brutal efficiency, slamming into the outer ranks and throwing warriors off their feet. Silver flashed in the morning light—blades strapped to their limbs, enchanted, judging by the way the steel shimmered. And they didn’t howl like rogues.
They were silent.
Even as they tore into Rowan’s wolves.
Giselle reached the front just as one of the Bonecaster’s wolves—taller than the rest, with a single streak of red dyed into his fur—leapt at her. She brought up her sword and met him mid-air, the force of the impact knocking her back two steps. But she held firm.
He came at her again, swiping high, but her blade caught his and twisted. Steel met steel, sparks flying. Her pulse thundered in her ears. He grinned at her with sharp teeth, then lunged low, aiming for her side.
She ducked, spun, and slashed upward—catching him under the jaw. Blood sprayed and he dropped without a sound.
Another one was already on her heels, but Liam cut him down from behind, panting.
“They’re trained soldiers,” he growled. “This isn’t a rogue ambush—this is a war campaign.”
“No,” Giselle said breathlessly, backing into formation beside him. “This is an extermination attempt.”
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