Chapter 109 — The Goddess’s Hand
She could see Rowan up ahead, battling two of the Bonecaster’s wolves alone, his black fur flashing as he held the line. But even he couldn’t hold them forever. The pack was being slowly overwhelmed. And then—
Seren’s voice sliced through the packlink like thunder.
“You must push them into the valley. Now. It’s the only place the wards will hold. Trust me.”
Giselle caught Rowan’s eye across the chaos. He heard her too.
“Fall back to the southern ridge!” Rowan ordered. “Draw them in—drive them into the valley!”
Giselle turned and shouted the same to those near her, rallying the fighters around her like stars gathering around a collapsing sun. She fought as she moved, parried a strike meant for Kalen, pulled another wolf from the mud and pushed forward through sheer will.
The battlefield shifted as Rowan’s warriors turned the tide—not by brute strength, but by strategy. They began to retreat—not in fear, but with purpose, letting the Bonecaster’s wolves believe they were breaking.
But they weren’t breaking.
They were baiting.
Drawing the enemy exactly where they needed them.
And Giselle, covered in blood, sword blazing with Avella’s runes, was right there in the thick of it.
Because she had something to protect.
And the Bonecaster had no idea what storm he’d stepped into.
The wind howled through the valley like a breath held too long, waiting to be released. Giselle’s boots pounded against churned earth, slick with blood and ash. Beside her, Rowan tore through the enemy ranks, his massive wolf barreling forward like a force of nature, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake.
They were almost there.
“Keep pushing!” Giselle shouted, her voice raw. “Drive them south—don’t let them split off!”
The Bonecaster’s wolves, brutal and efficient, followed with feral confidence, believing their enemies to be retreating in disarray. It was what Seren had counted on—their arrogance. Their hunger for blood.
Their blind faith in the battle already being won.
Giselle slashed her blade through the neck of a wolf leaping for Rowan’s back. The body hit the dirt before the snarl finished leaving its throat.
She and Rowan moved in perfect harmony now—back to back, then side by side, leading the push down the ridge. Wolves broke apart around them, some of Rowan’s warriors acting wounded, others forming small desperate skirmishes that seemed like panic but were anything but.
Every movement calculated.
Every step pulling the Bonecaster’s army exactly where they needed to be.
And then—finally—they crested the last ridge.
Below them, the valley yawned open. Steep walls of blackened stone rose high on either side, the entrance narrow and winding, the earth shifting from grassy soil to cracked slate. Silent. Still.
Deathly still.
Rowan shifted back into his human form, blood streaking down his arms, his chest heaving. Giselle did the same beside him, sweat matting her hair to her brow. Her fingers ached from holding the sword so tightly.
“They’re in,” Rowan muttered, eyes scanning the narrowing funnel behind them. “Seren. Now.”
There was no reply. Just the sound of paws behind them. Dozens. Hundreds.
And then—light.
Brilliant, searing gold burst from the cliffs on either side.
A figure appeared on the far ridge above the valley—Seren, arms raised high, Avella at her side with her cloak billowing in the wind. Runes blazed beneath their feet, ancient symbols carved into the stones glowing to life. The sky above them seemed to still—clouds pausing mid-drift, time holding its breath.
Giselle stepped forward, blinking against the brilliance.
Seren’s voice echoed across the valley—not through the air, but through the packlink. Through the soul.
“By the will of the Moon and the hand of the Goddess, I cast down your violence.” The very ground shuddered. “You who were forged in blood and turned from the sacred path—you shall be bound.”
Light erupted from the rocks themselves—thick, golden bands of magic shooting across the valley like vines. The Bonecaster’s wolves snarled in alarm as they crossed the threshold—only to be caught mid-stride. One by one, they staggered, snarling, twisting as the light wrapped around their limbs, their necks, their bodies.
And then the valley sealed.
A wall of blinding energy rose behind the last of the Bonecaster’s warriors, trapping them inside.
Panic broke through their ranks.
The disciplined, eerie silence that had once marked their army collapsed into screams, howls, snapping jaws. They tried to claw back, to retreat—but the magic surged tighter.
“What is this?” Rowan muttered, his gaze locked on the glowing walls.
“Sacred binding,” Avella called from the ridge. Her voice was grim. “Once used to trap dark spirits during the first Great War. This is one of the last circles left unbroken.”
Seren’s eyes met Giselle’s across the battlefield.
“Strike now,” she said softly, “while the Goddess holds them.”
Giselle didn’t hesitate.
She turned, raised her sword, and let out a cry that echoed across the valley. Her pack answered.
With blades drawn and teeth bared, Rowan’s wolves surged into the glowing trap—not as prey, but as retribution.
Giselle ran with them, her heart thundering, her lungs burning.
Because now… now they had a chance.
Now, the Goddess had given them justice.
And they would take it with fire and blood.
The trap was working—Giselle could see it in the chaos.
Bonecaster wolves writhed in confusion, unable to retreat, their bodies caught in shimmering bands of golden light. Rowan’s warriors tore through them with practiced fury, using the choke of the terrain and the element of surprise to full advantage.
But amidst the mess of snarls and screams… a pressure shifted.
Giselle felt it before she saw it—like the crack of lightning before the storm hits. A sudden, unnatural silence carved into the middle of battle, and the air thickened, heavy with foul magic.
Rowan faltered mid-stride, just as the shadows around the far edge of the valley peeled open.
A figure emerged—cloaked in black, her face mostly hidden by a bone-white veil save for glowing eyes that shimmered an unnatural silver. Around her, a dozen women stepped forward, their palms dripping dark smoke, magic pulsing around them like a heartbeat.
The Bonecaster.
And her witches.
“Rowan!” Giselle called, the sound clawing up her throat as her instincts screamed. But he was already moving toward the threat, sword drawn, his wolf snarling beneath his skin.
He shifted mid-charge, launching himself toward the Bonecaster.
She didn’t move.
Her witches did.
The moment Rowan’s claws came within a breath of her, their arms snapped up in unison. A shockwave burst out, invisible and violent. Giselle barely had time to brace herself before the force slammed into Rowan.
He was hurled backward—hard.
His body smashed against the side of a jagged boulder with a sound that made Giselle’s stomach twist. Blood sprayed across the stone as he crumpled to the earth in a heap of fur and broken breath.
“No!” Giselle screamed, sprinting toward him. A wolf lunged for her from the side, but she ducked under the swipe, ramming her sword into its ribs without slowing.
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
