Chapter 82: Gorge Of The Fallen
In the heart of camp, lanterns hung over makeshift stretchers. Wounded werewolves groaned among heat-soaked blankets. A healer’s touch was practiced and tender, but there were too many injuries and not enough time—or magic—to heal them all.
A young pup, covered in blood and soot, looked up at Kieran. "Alpha... they took my mother..."
Kieran knelt, voice gentle but unyielding. "I swear I will bring her back or fall trying." He pressed a hand to the pup’s head. "Go with the healers."
He moved on.
Adrenaline waned as the gates of battle edged closer. Ahead waited no silvered sunrise—just the roar of things corrupt and brutal.
Battle began before midnight. Demon wolves struck from the treeline—fast, intelligent, coordinated—breaking the line with primal force. They emerged like nightmares, rifling through ranks with brutality born of dark art.
Werewolves responded with counterattacks, claws meeting claws, steel colliding with sorcery-slicked hide. The earth shook. Lanterns shattered. Ritual fires burned.
Kieran fought like a man possessed. His sword, bonded to his bloodline, burned silver-blue as he carved through the enemy, never resting. One demon reared at him, spine-mirrored blades protruding from its back. Kieran countered with a downward slash that severed spine and spine, sending the creature to collapse in shards of bone.
A howl from behind—another demon lunged, teeth glinting. Kieran spun, disrupted the strike, then drove his fist into its skull until it cracked like an eggshell.
Wolves rallied around him, driven by his presence. But every enemy brought another wave. One demon tore through the flank of his line, sending steel and fur flying.
Kieran’s eyes caught a silhouette—Alpha Corrin, one of the strongest there. He engaged a towering enemy made of smoke and shadow, vanquishing it with a thunderous silver roar—but took three claws to the chest in return. He staggered, collapsing against Kieran’s side.