With a great effort, Killian shifted out of his wolf form.

An old curse was wrenched from his tongue. The loss of the heightened sense of smell and hearing hurt. The loss of the wolf was agony. His bones groaned. He staggered, and then silently pushed himself back up.

Killian was naked, and he didn’t damn care, not one bit.

The injured and dying warriors of Krydon piled around him in a semicircle. They’d come at him, at him, at him, until they’d actually started to back off or flee.

And the northern mages were wrecked.

They were huddled in a pile, their backs against the stone buildings of the alley. They were magic-fatigued and close to death.

Killian wiped blood from his mouth and face, his hand trembling. Softly, he stalked towards the injured mages like a nightmare.

Ralphs and … and … Yarrows and …

Damn his mind.

Killian shook his head, trying to bring himself back to his mind and remove the remnants of the wolf.

There were a few dangers with being in wolf form, but the biggest one by far was Killian could lose himself to him.

Rule one of the wolf: spend too much time in the form of a wolf, and that’s where you’ll stay.

And time had ticked onwards without him realising, judging by the movement of the stars and moon in the sky.

Rule two: spend too long in the form of a wolf, you’ll stop caring about time.

It really was a trap.

Transforming into a man with the mind of a wolf was not a fate Killian wanted for himself. Nor was remaining a wolf for the rest of his days, when truly he was a man.

He’d been born a man.

He’d damned well die as one.

His entire body shook.

He continued to stalk towards the northern mages.

A couple of the mages, predictably, screamed. One tried to run, but Killian caught him easily, shaking him hard when he resisted.

He dragged the mages through Krydon, his fists bunched in their robes, their hair, stalking through the dark with complete ease. He crashed through the barricades the townsfolk had set up earlier - before the wolf had destroyed them, warrior people be damned, they were nothing compared to the wolf - and ignored the shouts from any surviving townsfolk and his soldiers. He threw the weakened mages at the first soldier who dared to make eye contact with him.

Rookie.

Rookie’s cheeks were flushed red from stress. His eyes darted all over Killian.

‘Major,’ rookie said, clutching onto the mages’ robes and yanking them behind himself with a protectiveness that made Killian’s lip curl in disdain, because, really, Killian was handing over the mages and if he’d wanted to hurt them further he would’ve, and a pipsqueak like the rookie wouldn’t be able to stop him. ‘Major, you’re covered in blood. Major, you’re nude. Let me get you your clothes. Let me walk you to your room. Let me-’

‘The kid?’

The rookie gaped at Killian, and then collected himself. ‘Still searching, Major. There’s parties in every direction in case he’s managed to divert the jinx-’

‘Longwark,’ Killian said. ‘Any sign?’

‘No, nothing-’

Killian transformed back into the wolf, not giving a shit about the screams and chaos erupting around him. Not caring about the brutal pain, the impossible shifting of bones, senses, mind.

He padded into the Hall, down to the prison, and into Longwark’s cell. Got his scent.

And then, went out, crossing the town, then the boundary, and into the cover of the forest.

Searching.

Longwark had been in bad shape.

There was a chance. The wolf might get him.

The wolf pulled at him, more, more, more, with every moment he spent within his body.

Rule three: lose yourself to the wolf, no one’s coming to save you.

If he didn’t get his prisoners back, if he didn’t somewhat redeem himself before all the military big wigs and mage soldiers arrived in mere hours, he would lose the reputation he’d spent years rebuilding.

The wolf covered miles and miles easily and fast, eating up the ground with his wolf trot.

Mages and sorcerers might be able to fahren.

But wolves can run.

And they don’t need damned hours, days, weeks to recover between distances.

And Longwark, he’d been on a diet that weakened sorcerers - well, it weakened mages, no one really had any damn clue about the diet sorcerers required, but it was assumed it was the same as mages, seeing as they got misclassified as mages at different points in history, they’d gotten into the guild, the military, the government, and their eating habits had never been identified as different.

Longwark had been pretty messed up. Honestly, it was impressive he’d managed to farhen at all, even if he’d been given chalk and a wand by that damn crow.

Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators!

Rule four: the wolf will kill, when he needs, when he wants, with no thought of the law.

Rule five: almost nothing has the power to stop the wolf, aside from silver, some sorcerers, and himself.

The wolf kept running.

Hunting.

The sun was high in the sky, through the dappled sky visible through the trees. A tiny, human concern whispered through the wolf.

The Major General Darcy, the mages, will be at Krydon by now. They will have been greeted by the chaos there.

When the wolf scented Longwark, he didn’t care.

He had him.

Had the traitorous bastard.

Wind ruffled his fur. He paused, still. He was invisible in the dappled shadows, one paw off the ground, his ears pricked forward.

Then the wolf saw Longwark.

Longwark, he almost damn killed.

The wolf stopped, his jaws around the northerner’s neck, his teeth digging into his flesh. The northerner’s jugular moved. His pulse jumped.

Erratically.

Dangerously fast.

The whisper of the memory of Longwark’s infuriatingly steady thud, thud, thud, through all the interrogations, through every intimidation tactic, every attempt to unmake him, vibrated through the wolf’s mind. It whispered again. Like his late wife, her soft lips to his ear, her gentle breath warm, and her voice lilting, while they lay in bed as the sun rose. Quietly, quietly, so as not to wake their sons.

That snapped Killian back.

Killian transformed and ripped the wand out of Longwark’s grasp.

The wand stung Killian as he touched it - zapped with static and magic and it bloody hurt - but he showed no pain, no weakness, as he hauled Longwark up.

Longwark stared at Killian, his ice grey eyes intense.

The shock on Longwark’s face was the first open expression he’d seen on the sorcerer, the first sign of genuine emotion.

It took Killian a long moment to remember how to talk, how to think beyond instinct. It had never taken him this long to bring back his human mind. Being human again was dizzying. Painful.

‘Come on,’ said Killian. ‘We have a long walk.’

And he didn’t let go of Longwark, not for one second. He dragged Longwark back, back through the forest, not caring about his nakedness, though Longwark remarked on it several times in accented Lismerian, and then in northern so harsh that Killian could guess the meaning.

After a few hours, these snide comments stopped. Longwark got harder to drag.

What had taken Killian hours in his wolf form took until the next dawn by foot. He hauled Longwark along, eventually leaving the forest behind and crossing through fields and farms, and then over the crumbling wall that marked Krydon’s boundary.

They were met by Codder.

Killian had to deal with Codder.

But, not now. Not while the wolf lurked, so very ready to break through and take control of everything.

He’d kill him right now, if Codder admitted what Killian already knew - Codder had fucking messed with the kid, after he’d explicitly told him not to, or he’d been involved with the escape. Hell, if Codder even lied to him about it, Killian would tear him apart.

Codder grabbed Longwark and bound his hands and caught Killian up on who’d arrived from Dierne and the guild, and when.

‘The mage soldiers, Major,’ drawled Codder, his pale face drawn. Tight. Seemingly unaware that Killian was a hair's breadth from snapping his neck in two. ‘They were here maybe half an hour before they …’

‘They what?’ said Killian.

‘They disappeared, sir. They ran.’

Ruthlessness pulsed hard and deep within Killian. Very carefully, Killian laid his gaze on Longwark.

But, Longwark, even if he gave Killian answers, could not be trusted. Killian couldn’t tell when he was being truthful or deceptive. Longwark was nothing but a liability. Longwark was trouble, and he knew what was going on, perhaps had even engineered it, and Killian could do damn all about getting real information out of him. Killian could kill Longwark, easily. He should.

‘They,’ said Codder, ‘you - you should’ve seen the Major General Darcy, sir. He’s so angry.’ Codder’s voice shook, which was so unusual for him - the man had an almost pathological level of fearlessness which Killian loved - and that rattled Killian. For Darcy’s anger to decompose Codder, he could only imagine the state of his other men.

Now, more than ever, he needed them focused. Strong.

Not in a damn shambles and making choices out of fear.

Desertion could become a real threat.

If his reputation was already at risk of being in shambles from the kid and Longwark, he could only imagine how mass desertion would reflect upon his leadership.

Clochaint.

‘Major, maybe it was good you weren’t here-’

‘Clothes,’ Killian growled. ‘Codder, get me my uniform, so I don’t walk up to them naked.’

‘Yes, Major.’

Codder disappeared, jerking Longwark along behind him, and they faded into the black shadows cast by the tall, skinny houses bordering the alley.

Killian stayed, waiting, his chest heaving, and his trembling out of control. Killian hated letting Longwark out of his sight. But, Longwark was seriously injured. He was exhausted - Killian could see it and smell it, even in his human form. Longwark would not be a threat until after he’d slept and eaten, at least.

That left the mage soldiers.

And the kid.

Killian shut his eyes.

What a fuck up.

Someone headed towards Killian. Their footsteps echoed off the high walls of the alley. Their breath was ragged.

Pickering emerged, pausing for only a second at Killian’s appearance.

‘Major - they said you were down here - Major, something awful-’

The kid, Killian thought immediately. Not content with firework fire, not content with bewitching the local horses …

Pickering mouthed soundlessly.

‘Spit it the damned well out, Pickering.’

Pickering swayed, his face drained of colour. His eyes were stark.

‘Rookie, Major. Russet.’

Killian frowned. He stepped forward. He pushed down the fear that his men had already started deserting. ‘What’s he done?’

If those northern mages had given the rookie the slip, Killian would have him cleaning toilets for the next year. Rookie was too soft. He hadn’t seen much of the world yet, despite being captured off one of the worst pirate ships that plagued the waters on the south coast. He knew boats. Not mages.

‘He’s - he’s been killed. Major.’ Pickering stood in front of Killian, weeping.

Stinging fear rippled through Killian. Pickering never cried. Not when he’d gotten captured by goblins that one time. Not when his bunkmate had gotten stabbed in front of him by a tomb raider three years ago. Not when he’d gotten the news his grandmother had passed away, and now his seven little brothers had to be raised by the uncle he hated.

‘Someone strung him up,’ said Pickering, his voice hoarse as he visibly struggled to control his tears, ‘from the bridge in Gallow’s Alley. He’s - he’s dead. Some of the men could - feel it. I - can feel it. There’s magic at work here. Dark …’

‘That,’ said Killian, ‘doesn’t make sense.’

‘Major …’

Killian barely registered Pickering’s cry as he stalked past. Barely heard the shouts as he stormed through Krydon. Damn naked.

There was a sorcerer here.

One Killian had missed. One hiding.

But, he’d been wrong. It wasn’t about the kid, this sorcerer wasn’t here to collect him. Or if it was, it was blind, because the kid was miles away.

Killian had one mission in mind.

Talk to the Ralph mages. The mages with history here. The mages who’d been hiding from something, who had been playing cat and mouse with something - likely a damn sorcerer - that scared them more than Killian or the king.

The Ralphs knew something.

They couldn’t lie like Longwark.

And, Killian could make them break their silence.

Killian would find who had murdered his rookie.

Then, he’d find the damn kid.