Zander plunged his blade deep into the wolf, feeling Balbaraq’s vengeance coursing through him like lightning. His hands trembled like a child’s, begging for comfort as he drove the sword further into the beast. Yet, killing it did not bring Kenneth back.
Tears welled in his eyes, cutting through the haze of bloodlust. All his years of training, endless angles of practicing on his own, of strengthening his body, of heeding every lesson Sir Edward taught him, and it wasn’t enough to save one of his closest friends.
“Behin’ ye!”
Zander moved on instinct. He wrenched his sword from the giant wolf’s back and spun. A flash of gray fur and snarling teeth blurred his tear-veiled vision, but his blade found its mark, slicing through fur, flesh, and bone in a spray of red.
A yelp echoed through the clearing. Zander blinked the blood from his eyes and saw Alfread finishing off the last of the wolves, slashing the throat of a wolf already pierced by three arrows. The clearing fell unnervingly silent, the only sound his own ragged breath and the dull throb of his temples. Zander’s mind felt untethered, as if he stood on the edge of a nightmare, waiting to wake up. He could almost believe none of it had happened, that he’d find himself back in bed with Lorelei and Dinah at any moment, ready to start this day over.
Alfread approached, speaking, though Zander couldn’t make out the words. It was as if his friend’s voice came from far away, underwater. He knew Alfread was speaking Leverian, but the meaning was lost. The clearing, the bodies, Kenneth’s lifeless form—they all felt distant. His mind had been flung somewhere beyond the battle, beyond the grief, to a place where time moved forward but life stood still.
The giant wolf twitched.
Zander’s hand tightened around his sword, but his heart wasn’t in it. What was there left to fight for?
Alfread rushed toward the fallen beast, shouting something that barely reached Zander’s ears. The wolf’s massive body was hauled aside with a grunt, and Zander found himself watching, detached, like a spectator in his own life.
“Zander! Now!” Alfread’s voice finally cut through the distance, shaking him from his stupor.
Zander startled as if woken from a deep sleep. He hurried forward, his heart refilling with renewed purpose.
Alfread tossed him a strip of cloth. “Press this on the wound.”
Zander knelt by Kenneth’s side. Blood gushed from his friend’s leg, refusing to slow. He pressed down as hard as he could, the wet fabric slick between his fingers. Kenneth’s groan of pain jolted Zander, but he kept pressing.
“Harder,” Alfread said, steady like the seasoned medican he was.
Zander obeyed, though the sight of his friend’s blood made him nauseous. Kenneth was pale, his teeth clenched against the agony. But there was something in his eyes—a glimmer, a stubborn spark. Zander had never seen Kenneth look so alive, even in the face of death.
Alfread worked quickly, pulling a bottle from his pack with steady hands. “This is going to sting, but it’ll save your leg.” His tone was calm, compassionate, with meladonite confidence.
As he poured the bubbling liquid over Kenneth’s wounds, Kenneth let out a blood-curdling scream, his voice reverberating off the trees like thunder. “Meladon ‘ave mercy! Ye tryin' ter kill me!”
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“I know it hurts,” Alfread soothed. “But you’ll wake up with your life and your leg, my friend. I promise.”
Alfread placed another layer of fabric over the wound and told Zander to hold the bandage in place. Despite all the pain, Zander was shocked to see a smile on Kenneth’s face when Alfread slipped of his belt.
“Put yer cock away, Al. I don’ wannit,” Kenneth groaned through clenched teeth.
Alfread laughed. “Don’t lie to yourself.” His grin faltered as he secured the tourniquet around Kenneth’s leg.
Kenneth’s scream tore through the clearing again, scattering birds throughout the forest. Zander watched Alfread, the calm, sure way he handled the situation, and felt a strange discomfort rising within him. He had never doubted his own strength before, but something about today’s battle put a fracture in his confidence. He tried to paint over the crack, telling himself that this was no different than losing his virginity. He would do better next time.
Kenneth’s screams subsided. His skin was pale as a cloud, and his breath came in short gasps. “Am I gonna make it?”
Alfread squeezed Kenneth’s hand and nodded firmly. “Worry not, my friend. Get some rest. We will watch over you.” Alfread turned his smile on Zander. “Right?”
“You’re tougher than Old Iron,” Zander said, giving his friend a smile. “Rest now, brother.”
Smiling, Kenneth drifted into an uneasy sleep. Zander held his hand, the reality of his near-death shaking something loose in him. He had been ready to mourn Kenneth, but now, the realization of how much he cared for his friend brought a new ache. He glanced at Alfread. “Is he really going to be alright?”
“He’ll live,” Alfread assured him. “He’ll be back to wanting to put pots over heads again too soon.”
Zander nodded, accepting the words but knowing they wouldn’t erase the day’s events. Kenneth would survive, but something in Zander had shifted. He hadn’t been the hero tonight. That role belonged to Alfread, and though it stung, he forced himself to feel pride for his friend. “Sir Evan and Mirielda would be proud of you. You found the beasts, killed almost as many wolves as me, helped Melissa and Marigold, kept me from killing Otis, and saved Kenneth’s life. You were like a storybook hero.”
Alfread’s smile turned somber when he looked toward the massive wolf’s body. Zander followed his gaze, noticing the dagger lodged in its throat. Kenneth had struck it before it fell on him. He also noticed the wolf’s eyes—dull gray now, but he remembered them as silver, bright as stars.
Alfread sighed. “The story has only just begun.”
Zander thought of the shaded man he’d seen through those silver eyes. For once, he wanted Alfread to explain away his superstition. “It was almost as if they were,” he hesitated a few turns, wincing at the childishness of his idea, “human.”
Alfread’s head shot up, his eyes meeting Zander’s. The silence stretched between them. Zander half-hoped Alfread would call him batshite crazy. Sometimes, it was better to be wrong.
But Alfread did the worst thing he could have; he agreed. “I see no other possibility.”
Alfread glanced at the sky, where sunset beckoned the stars into the world’s canopy. “Your mother told me stories about folk that could become beasts,” he said, his voice low. “In Kavova, south of Meridian, metamorphs can change their appearance at will. Before Vesarra was conquered, the wildshapers of the Great Atmana Forest could transform into beasts. Worst of all, the tamers of the Celegan Hollows in northern Vesarra can possess minds from afar and control the actions of the creatures they tame. I cannot yet grasp why any of these folk would attack isolated Bearbreaker farmlands, oceans away from their home, but I also cannot wish away this story because I neither like the approaching climax or understand from whence it comes.”
Zander inhaled the truth. This story had only just begun and was headed for a destination darker than he ever imagined. He gripped his locket. He needed to find the Sunrise before he ran out of chapters.
Zander of Mirrevar decided then and there, in the wolves’ den, that tomorrow would herald a new dawn for him. One more day of all the beautiful and loving things that got him this far: Mirielda and Evan, training with Sir Edward, frolicking at Old Iron or the Bald Bear, of friendship with Kenneth, and brotherhood with Alfread. For after tomorrow, he rode off into new beginnings that would see him to the end of this story, where he would finish strong.
He clenched his locket—Leveria shaped silver—and remembered his mother’s final words. Leveria is in your hands, my air.
Whatever this foe was, he would protect Ruby and Sapphire. The sunset bathed the horizon in hues of purple and orange, but Zander longed instead for the sunrise. For his Sunrise.