A scuffle and something falling to the ground resounds from the open doorway of a dark abode. The mother—Heather—gestures for me to stay like the dog her daughter keeps seeing me as. I pin my ears back, not wanting her to go alone, but also recognizing my priority should be to keep Shasta safe.

A man comes out of the home with a sack of mismatched goods in a burlap pillow-case. A high-pitched scream escapes his lungs that should've come from the girl on my back—not a burly man of undisclosed occupation. Humor lifts my lips in a silent snarl.

That's when I catch sight of the scar on his brow and the bear-like figure with an overabundance of hair. This is my second captor. Jonas or Jones... I think. I wondered what happened to the old bird when I killed his companion back in the implosion.

But I'm not thinking of that yet. I'll have time to reflect later.

It says something of the jingoist's training that even caught and cornered; he drops his ill-gotten gains and twists a knife from its sheath.

He charges Heather. I stiffen, something about the large man two heads taller than the lady not sitting right with me. The mom bounces on the balls of her feet, grasping the inside of his wrist in a smooth action developed from much practice. She twists under his arm, pulls it into a chicken wing behind his back and jerks up, making his hand spasm as his elbow is displaced. He yelps in pain. The knife clatters to the cobblestone alley. She kicks the back of his knee, making his leg buckle. A lethal jab to the back of his neck and he goes down like a sack of rocks, unconscious.

“What are you waiting for?” Heather asks as I stare.

I realize my jaw is hanging open; I close it with a snap and limp forward. There’s much more to this young woman than meets the eye.

Rings of metal upon metal and the piercing yells of wounded and dying makes me up the pace. There are people in various stages of pain plastered in the middle of the square where fighting is the thickest. I see more purple cloaked jingoist than townsmen and soldiers—reinforcements must have been hanging around. The scent of copper and death coats my mouth in an oily sliminess I can't spit out in this form. The cries of the fallen and the blood drenching the street like a dark, shimmering black ocean should bring disgust to my stomach, but I can't find it in me to care. I've seen too much.

My paws stop in surprise as I see a man bearing down on the giant who helped...catch...me earlier. This second man shoots some... thing out of his fingers that look suspiciously like tendrils of shadow. The giant dodges one, but another hits his chest, causing him to grunt in pain and stumble.

I force Shasta off next to Heather, having a feeling they'll be just fine.

My paws take me toward the deepest fighting in the mile eating lope of the wolf. Pain and weakness demand I stop. Let the man have his fate. Go find a corner somewhere and die.

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I shake my head and force my limping gait faster, leaping over the back of one man who was just stabbed in the gut, hamstringing a jingoist who was about to stab a farmer, and tracking the giant and dark mage the entire time.

The mage batters the giant’s sword away with a flick of the wrist. Another twist and the blade goes flying. The giant backpedals, and the skilled mage shoots another shadow at my ally. He lands on his knees, shivering as if cold. The jingoist mage raises his blade with a jagged grin on his face and glee in his eyes.

I duck my head and force my paws faster. I leap over the giant just as the mage brings the sword down. In a flurry of black fur and leather, I take him down.

I grip his jugular between my fangs and growl. The fight of my instincts is too much. They want me to kill. End this threat. And I should. But I still my instincts. I will not let them overcome me. I won't become the monster everyone fears me to be. The one I've always been. But hey, new leaf and all that. I'm determined to be more than I was. To be better.

A knife pierces my chest, missing my heart by mere inches. A spasm of pain is all it takes for my jaws to clamp shut in a reaction too sudden for me to consciously react or retract.

The man gasps. His eyes go wide as he reaches for his throat and panic enters his eyes. I calmly meet his gaze, knowing that for every kill I’ve made, something inside me dies. He gurgles for a moment before going still. His hand slides off the knife still in my chest. I watch the last spark of life leave his eyes, never to return.

A howl comes from the alley where I left the mother. A wolf comes barreling out. Stark white fur shines in a caress of silver moonlight. She looks for all the world like a pearl statue, coming to take vengeance on her enemies. The first jingoist goes down in a tangle of fur and fury. She howls again, and I find the strength to give a strangled howl back. Battle calls surround me. The townsfolk and guards roar in hope; the jingoist in despair.

“The Kursk! They’ll kill us all!” a jingoist soldier yells, shivering in the moon's light.

“Just like Mage Mcdowel,” another says.

Eyes lock on the man beneath my paws. A low rumble from my throat seems to vibrate the very ground we stand on. Or maybe that’s just my wolf being dramatic.

The jingoist scatter to the wind, screaming bloody murder.

Townsmen and soldiers alike look to the brown-eyed man in the cloak for direction.

“Rings Two and Three, take five men apiece and sweep the streets. Make sure none of the jingoist remain. We will be free or die trying,” he commands swiftly, eyes never pausing their scan of the battlefield. "Rings One and Four, assist the farmers, get these wounded to the inn for Jessica to see, and get the gravest to Morgana."

A resounding shout comes from the battle weary, but determined, men and women as they scatter in groups to obey.

The brown-eyed man finds the white wolf with his gaze and a smile tightens his eyes, a profound affection shining forth even as he continues to issue commands and help the wounded.

I find I’m too weak to do anything more than flop on my side, away from the dead man.

The man you killed, my brain helpfully reminds me. Grand.

I try to gather my paws beneath me, but can’t even get the strength to do that beneath the influence of the silver in my blood and the blade in my chest.

Everything becomes fuzzy while a buzzing fills the air. My disjointed mind wonders where the bees came from.

I also wonder when I fell. The cold ground beneath me chills me to the bone as shivers wrack my frame. I drift at the thought of a safe pup and an entire town defending their own. It makes me smile, regardless of the way it makes my teeth show in a snarl. I’m currently too tired to care.