Outside the East Gate of Luvatha, the fight became something else. Daivad didn’t have to worry about harming civilians, didn’t even have to concern himself with guards shooting at him—they hadn’t been brave enough to follow the battle beyond the walls. Ben was back out of sight, somewhere within the dark, scrubby trees, making them dance—and Daivad could turn all his focus on the monstrosity Kure had become.

Daivad hit the dusty ground, and shattered it to pieces. Nightbeasts screamed, flocks of winged creatures taking to the moonless sky, and the wingless ones scrambling for solid ground as a shockwave rippled around Daivad, spitting rock and dirt.

“Shift!” Kure spat, blackened veins bulging.

The Selachian beast of strong, spidery limbs and razor edges surged through the shuddering trees to a chorus of snapping branches and scraping claws, foregoing the broken earth altogether—but the scrubby trees quickly turned against him. They moved, their branches snatching at Kure’s limbs, slowing him until he was lashed to one tree. With a great groaning, the trunk bowed, slamming Kure into the ground.

It had been difficult, when Daivad had first learned Earthbreaking, for Ben and him to fight together. The earth was nature magic’s foundation, what gave it stability and nourishment, and Daivad’s practice broke that foundation apart. Once they were reunited in the Queen’s Army, it was a mixture of stubbornness and necessity that had bred a new fighting style for the both of them.

It required precision on Daivad’s part, knowing where to drive his magic to split the ground so the roots of Ben’s magic weren’t ripped apart, and resilience on Ben’s part to keep hold of crumbling earth, to adapt so quickly to a shifting foundation. But now it came as naturally as breathing.

Kure’s body hit the ground, fin-blades snapping beneath him, but it took him little time to shred the branches that bound him, sawing his way free. Little time—but enough. The shattered ground trembled and shifted, opening a churning pit, and gravity dragged Kure down. Daivad threw his weight forward and the earth rolled away from him, crashing over Kure like a wave.

That would have been the end of it, if Kure didn’t have the speed of a fully shifted Inhuman. He scuttled out of the pit of churning earth, just avoiding the brunt of the wave, his right side weeping blood from his own broken fin-blades jutting out of his skin.

“Shift!” Kure lunged, slashing through the branches that grabbed at him while Daivad struck, firing chunk upon chunk of earth at the Selachian.

Punctuating his words with each strike, Daivad said, “You—want—to die?”

The way Kure adapted to these shifting, hostile surroundings was remarkable, Daivad had to admit. Kure skimmed so lightly over the surface of the shattered ground and moved so quickly through the trees that neither Daivad nor Ben could hold him for long enough to land a killing blow. That grinning face surged forever toward him.

“I want to fight!” Kure spoke in Xo, and yet Daivad somehow got the gist of those warped ‘words.’ “I want to kill!” Kure slashed, and his magic ripped through the darkness between them—Daivad could swear he saw the night ripple like ribbons of black velvet. Daivad once again threw his bloody forearms up to block and an earthen shield burst from the ground. And was blown to pieces. “To wear the name of the greatest warrior!”

In a twisted way, Daivad understood. Kure had been looking for a fight, and he’d sized Daivad up as a worthy challenge, but it wouldn’t feel like a true victory unless he defeated the strongest version of Daivad. The fully shifted version.

Kure lunged through the destroyed shield just as a tree yanked Daivad up into its branches. Something had to change. Despite the beating Kure had taken, despite everything they’d thrown at him, all the blood he’d lost, since Kure had shifted again, he’d only gotten faster, stronger. Daivad was amazed Ben could still conduct so many trees—he was pushing himself too hard, and Daivad felt his friend’s practice fading fast. Hell, Daivad was slowing himself—lungs burning, skin soaked with blood and sweat, muscles trembling with the effort of throwing more magic at Kure. Something had to change, or they were both dead.

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But Daivad would not shift again. Never.

Daivad launched himself back to the ground, and immediately called up another shield—but Kure blew through that one too, hard enough to send Daivad flying. For all Ben’s magic, he could do nothing to soften the trunk that Daivad slammed into, knocking the breath from his lungs and shooting pain through his limbs. While he gasped, Ben threw tree after tree in Kure’s ever-advancing path, but the trees were slowing, weakening, and the next strike threw Daivad again. This time he hit the tree hard enough to topple it, and his vision went white for a moment.

Daivad spit blood, and he had no idea if he’d cut his mouth or if he was bleeding internally.

“If you won’t shift to save yourself,” Kure said, “then shift to save your friend!”

Kure swung, and half a dozen fin-blades shot toward where Ben sat, tucked behind a tree, struggling to stay conscious. Branches reached to shield Ben, but one blade slipped through, arcing around Ben’s tree and heading right for him—

Daivad took the moment of Kure’s distraction to haul his mass back on his feet and attack, because he had already felt the vibrations through his broken earth, the pounding pawbeats. Drauge snatched the fin-blade out of the air like it was a toy, and snapped it in his teeth before planting his paws around Ben’s seated form.

Maxea skirted in front of Kure, drawing his attention while Daivad struck. But when Kure turned to block Daivad’s claws, Maxea lunged, ripping into Kure’s thigh and drawing a pained shriek from Kure. The Wolves had arrived not a moment too soon—Ben’s practice could only handle a handful of sluggish trees now. Daivad and Maxea took turns tearing at Kure, weathering his barbed magic enough to wear him down. Death by a thousand…

Something was wrong.

Neither Daivad nor Maxea halted in their assault on Kure, but Daivad paid close attention to the hum of the earth, searching for the source of his sudden unease, and Maxea’s fur stood on end.

“You call your guard dogs to the fight…” Kure cackled.

It happened gradually enough that Daivad wasn’t sure when it began. An unholy wail, beginning soft and distant, then washing over itself again and again, rising like the tide, building until it filled the night. It had been a long time since something had given Daivad goosebumps. He had to suppress a shiver—but he still couldn’t see the source of the sound. From the way Maxea whipped her head around, she couldn’t either.

“…So I call mine.”

And then, the beast was there, striding near-silent over the shattered ground like its hooves barely even touched down. Its translucent skin shone a pale blue with patterns of glowing yellow specks across its body—how had he not seen it coming? It was enormous, nearly twice the size of a Great Wolf, with four powerful legs, its translucent muscles rippling like water. Its white mane glowed like moonlight, growing all along its spine and trailing long enough that the ends would have brushed the ground if the pale locks weren’t floating around it as if underwater. Its tail was thick and swam like a serpent through the air behind it, extending maybe twenty feet back. On each side of its horse-like face were three glittering red eyes. Down its chest was a long, vertical mouth with white fangs jutting out slightly. The mouth extended up the neck and split the underside of its jaw in two.

Daivad’s belly swooped and for just a moment he was breathless at the sight of this elegant, otherworldly horror. This, Daivad reminded himself, was why he did not fuck with the ocean. This was why the crown couldn’t touch Monster Island. The beasts on land were bad enough—the ones that bred in the inky depths of the ocean were unfathomably worse.

Maxea snarled as the beast glided past, gifting the Wolf a curious glance, and Daivad could hear the edge of panic in Maxea’s growl, though she was putting on a brave display. She wasn’t used to being dwarfed by an opponent. Ben must have given an order, because Drauge bounded forward to Maxea’s side to harmonize with her flat-eared, teeth-snapping snarl.

But Daivad was too stunned, too thrown by the beast’s lack of visible hostility to give the order to attack. The monster came to a stop behind Kure, unsurprised by his bloody, panting, fully shifted form. Kure stood on two legs—taller even than Daivad in this form—and crossed his bladed arms over a proud, puffed out chest, and the monster nibbled affectionately at his shoulder. Kure pressed his temple into the side of the beast’s muzzle.

“Name her Whiskey. Can your dogs take her?”

A snarl twisted Daivad’s face now. Maxea could take down any beast, especially with Drauge at her side. One of Maxea’s ears flicked back to Daivad, listening, and she steadied. The edge left her growl, replaced instead with a lethal promise.

“No question,” Daivad growled. And flicked his wrist in silent command.

The vertical mouth down the beast’s torso opened, splitting its jaw and displaying row upon row of churning teeth, and from within the mouth unfolded thin white pincers that snapped a warning as the Wolves surged forward.