The gates of the Obsidian Throne groaned open at first light.
Mist clung low to the ground, curling around the horses' hooves like smoke.
Lucas and I rode side by side in silence, cloaked in black, blending into the morning mist.
We made good time across the open fields.
By midday, the land changed.
The road narrowed, hemmed in by thick, gnarled woods.
And then —
Ahead of us —
Werewolves.
They stepped out from the trees, blocking the path.
At least fifteen of them.
Their eyes glinted yellow in the dim light, their bodies shifting into half-wolf forms — a mixture of fur, claws, and savage smiles.
Bandits.
Or worse.
Probably waiting for prey softer than us.
They picked wrong.
Lucas and I dismounted immediately.
As our boots hit the ground, we shifted.
Bones cracked and reformed.
Muscles rippled under fur.
Fangs burst free from our jaws.
I landed hard on all fours, my dark fur bristling, a growl ripping from deep in my chest.
Beside me, Lucas's wolf form towered — sleek and deadly, with piercing ice-blue eyes that promised violence.
The rogues charged.
Howling.
Wild.
Hungry.
We met them head-on.
The first rogue lunged for my throat.
I ducked low, ripping upward with my claws, tearing a deep gash across his belly.
He dropped without a sound, blood steaming on the cold ground.
Another slammed into me from the side — heavier, brutal.
We tumbled across the mud, snarling, biting, rolling.
I twisted mid-fall, sank my teeth into his shoulder, and used my back legs to launch him away.
He crashed into a tree with a sickening crack.
Lucas was a blur of black fur and savage strength.
He barreled into two rogues at once, sending them sprawling.
One clawed at his side, but Lucas spun, jaws snapping, catching the attacker by the throat and ripping free in a spray of blood.
He didn't pause.
He moved — fast, efficient, deadly.
Another rogue tried to flank him.
I lunged, slamming into the rogue's ribs with my full weight, driving him down into the mud.
He struggled.
I ended it quickly.
More rogues came from the trees, desperate now.
Slashing.
Snarling.
They fought like starving wolves — all wild rage and no discipline.
I took a claw across my side — shallow, but hot with pain.
I responded with a brutal bite to the attacker's throat, feeling the shudder of his body as he collapsed beneath me.
Mud and blood soaked the ground beneath us.
Lucas caught my eye across the battlefield, a wicked gleam in his.
He was bleeding — a deep cut along his flank — but still standing.
Another rogue rushed me.
I ducked low, twisted, and used my momentum to slam his skull into a rock with a satisfying crunch.
He didn't get up.
The last two rogues broke, turning to flee.
Lucas was faster.
He sprinted after them — a black streak — and brought them down before they reached the trees.
The woods fell silent.
Except for the soft patter of blood dripping into the mud.
And the heavy sound of our breathing.
Slowly, we shifted back.
Bones realigned.
Flesh knitted.
We stood again, human, covered in blood and rain, muscles aching but alive.
I wiped a hand across my mouth, tasting iron.
Lucas straightened, wincing slightly as he pressed a hand to the deep claw mark along his ribs.
He caught my gaze across the wreckage.
I hesitated.
"Are you okay?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
Lucas glanced down at his bleeding side, then back up at me.
"I'll be fine in a while," he said, voice casual.
"Werewolves heal quickly, remember?"
I huffed, rolling my eyes as I tugged my soaked cloak tighter around me.
"I know," I said dryly.
"Just didn't want to seem so heartless."
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.
"Well, now you do," he said, his mouth curving into that infuriating, lazy grin.
Despite myself, a corner of my mouth twitched.
Just slightly.