#chapter nineteen

Goldenflower lowered her nose and pressed her forehead to his. This purr was not the loudest she’d ever given—in fact, it may have been the quietest—but it vibrated through his body, shaking his tense muscles loose and warming his insides.

“You and your siblings are the world to me,” she said softly.

Firestar squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his words not to shake. “I love you.”

Reluctantly, slowly, he pulled away, opening his eyes to blink at her one final time. He didn’t wait for her to return the gesture before turning and choppily trotting up to the crowd waiting for him at the entrance. Forcing his tail to stay high, he led the way out of camp, his chest about to burst with swollen, frightened air.

The group didn’t talk loudly, but conversation flitted about uneasily: things like “will Brick even show up,” or “how many cats do you think we have on our side?” or “thank the stars it rained this morning, we’ll have enough mud to work with.” Firestar didn’t participate. He was thinking about the negotiations, and the inevitable fighting he’d have to partake in. Some part of him wished he’d have a heart attack and die right there.

“’Salrigh’sir,” Thornclaw murmured to him, walking along his right side, with Dustpelt on his left. “It’ll be okay.”

Firestar blinked at him, too, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t trust his voice right now.

The neutral grounds came into view quicker than he would have liked. Some of the air in his chest left in a relieved breath at the familiar sight of Brick’s uniquely-bald back as he sat with… well, really, an impressively-sized crowd of skinny cats. Firestar had no hope of counting, but this group seemed larger than the population of a Gathering.

Brick caught sight of them and stood, turning to face ThunderClan as they approached. “Well. I was wondering if any of you would stick to your word.”

“We’re just the first,” Firestar said. He flicked his tail to his Clanmates. “We brought some food. I’m sure you’re all hungry.”

The Aulmir cats stared at the carried prey, one or two of them drooling instantly. Their dull eyes lit with excitement in the way a failing house’s light would flicker on, barely lighting the room.

When Firestar glanced back, relief sprouted in him at the troubled, disturbed looks his Clanmates were giving their allies. They passed by him, setting down mice and birds and squirrels and rats and all manner of things plump and tasty.

“You peel the skin off for the meat,” Bramblepaw said shyly to a cat smaller than him as she sniffed the mouse he gave her. He relaxed as she obeyed and scarfed it down after a small taste.

Murmurs of “thank you” rose out of the cats that were eating. ThunderClan cats softly returned with “you’re welcome” or “no problem”. Firestar glanced over the crowd, looking for someone.

“Where’s Oracle?” he asked Brick.

Brick rolled a shoulder. “We were on our way out when I saw her getting chased by some Blood cats. Before you start, I couldn’t go to help her because I was smuggling some of these cats out of town. If I’d said anything, she wasn’t the only one who’d be in trouble.”

Firestar chattered his teeth anxiously. He made a mental note to look for Oracle if he ever made it back into the Aulmir.

“Well…” he said at last. “I’m sorry there isn’t enough prey for everyone. We brought all we could catch in a short amount of time—”

“Worry not!” a voice called out. “We’re not empty-mouthed ourselves.”

Firestar turned around and dipped his head respectfully to Mistfoot, walking side-by-side with Leopardstar. The entirety of RiverClan’s fighting force was with them, and each of them carried fish of varying sizes.

“Bit of an odd taste at first, I expect,” Mosspelt said as she dropped a shiny grey fish in front of one of the cats who hadn’t eaten. “But you’ll like it, I promise.”

The lights in their eyes shone just a little brighter. Several of them were trying to nudge each other out of the way of the new food.

“You don’t need to fight over them,” Mistfoot said. “We’ve got more than enough for everyone.”

“Thank you for bringing prey,” Firestar said to Leopardstar as everyone stepped forward to deposit the fish in a growing pile. “I know feeding loners is difficult for you.”

Leoaprdstar, surprisingly, didn’t bristle or snap. She looked at him, posture a bit stiff, then drew in a breath and settled a little, replying, “We might as well be kind to our allies once or twice.”

WindClan and ShadowClan arrived soon after. ShadowClan, unsurprisingly, had very little to offer, while WindClan had a few rabbits carried by multiple cats. The Aulmir cats looked at all of their options, visibly thrown by so much food just being given to them.

“Y’all are kind,” a tortoiseshell-and-white molly said, voice shaking. “Can– can I bring some of this to the boulder over there?” She nodded in the direction of the stone in Fourtrees, a fair distance away. At Firestar’s tilted head, she explained, “I couldn’t leave my kits alone in town, so– so I brought them somewhere I thought they’d be safe. Please, just a little, I won’t take much.”

“Take a rabbit,” Firestar said gently. “What’s your name?”

“Violet, sir.”

“Hi, Violet.” He blinked soothingly at her. “My name is Firestar. Let me help you carry it.”

A pair of grey cats from WindClan dropped a rabbit close to them, nodding respectfully to Firestar as he grabbed the scruff of the prey (and boy, was it heavier than it looked). Violet, hesitant at first, took the haunch in her teeth. A bit awkwardly, the pair carried the rabbit over to Fourtrees. Firestar was grateful for the quickness of the journey—his neck hurt holding this thing up even for that long.

When Violet gave a wordless call, four kittens hesitantly stepped around the side of the boulder, looking fearfully at Firestar.

“It’s alright,” Violet said, sounding much more confident with her kits. “This is a Clan cat. He brought you food.”

The fear was lost almost immediately, though the kits did give Firestar a wary second glance as they approached. To ease them, he backed quite a few steps away and let Violet instruct them on how to peel the fur back and get to the meat.

“What is this?” a little cream molly asked.

“It’s called a ‘rabbit’,” Violet said. “And it’s very good. Eat as much as you can, okay?”

The kits didn’t need to be told twice; a few strips of skin were removed, and they started eating voraciously. Firestar’s heart clenched at how skinny they were.

“Are there any other kits here?” he asked Violet. “We have safe places we can take them. With your permission, of course.”

Violet shook her head. “I was the only queen who would fight. Everyone said my kits would die, but… I’d rather they die in a place with fresh air and real plants, if it comes to that.”

“It won’t,” Firestar said, firm and short. “We won’t let anything happen to your children. I’ll talk to the other leaders and we’ll get them somewhere safer than here.”

Violet’s ears went back. “How do I know they’ll be okay?”

“We’ve got nurseries,” said Lavenderflower as she waltzed up. “Places dedicated to queens and kits, that are guarded by cats much stronger than all three of us put together. Their guard will kill however many cats try to come near the nursery.”

“They’re the safest places in all of the territories,” Firestar agreed. “In fact, you could go with them, if you wanted.”

To his surprise, Violet straightened up and frowned. It did nothing to make her look intimidating, and neither did her wobbly little voice. “No. I said I was going to fight, and I’m going to fight. They’ll– they’ll be okay without me. Right?”

“Right.” Lavenderflower gestured with her half-tail. “Come with me, and we’ll figure out which nursery we’ll take them to.”

The kits didn’t appear to notice their mother leaving with another stranger. Firestar observed them only breathing between bites, sharp little gasps, and then back to attacking the prey. With a soft sigh, he followed the mollies back to the massive crowd of cats.

“Firestar, there you are.” Blackstar was sitting just outside of the group with the other leaders, a few warriors, and, surprisingly, Brick. He cocked his head for Firestar to join them.

Firestar picked up his pace into a trot, quickly sitting down when he was within the circle. “Sorry, I was talking with someone. What did I miss?”

“Nothing, yet,” Brick said. “Your friends are trying to figure out a battle strategy.”

“We’re all trying to figure out a battle strategy,” Leopardstar said icily.

“Pardon me,” Brick said, looking unapologetic.

Firestar said nothing to this, restraining a sigh. He nodded to Rookstar. “Well… do we have any ideas?”

“We do,” Rookstar said. “Blackstar.”

Blackstar raised his square head high and spoke. “I can be sure that seeing all of us together will put the Blood at equal footing with us, knowing the size of our side. We still are not sure we have numbers over them, and even if we do, they’ll know to attack their own with our markings of mud, once they see them.” His ears went back. “My suggestion is an ambush. If we can catch them off guard, and make them confused on who to attack, we have a weaker enemy to fight.”

“If you’ll pardon me…” Brick glanced around slowly. “There ain’t much of a place to ambush them from around here. It’d work well if we can pull it off—the Blood’s followers are stupider than most. But, well, we got tall grass here, and that won’t do much.”

Why did Rookstar suddenly look so uncomfortable? Even his Clanmates around him were glancing at each other in visible worry.

“That won’t, no.” Leopardstar tapped her tail thoughtfully. “But just being out in the open would put us at a disadvantage, even if we do outnumber them. They’re vicious enough for three cats.”

Rookstar glanced back at his cats and whispered something. They whispered back to him, sounding like harried insects.

“Rookstar?” Firestar tilted his head. “Is everything alright?”

Everyone looked at the eldest leader as the whispering turned softer. Then he nodded once, turned his head back to everyone, and spoke in a low, oddly intense voice.

“What I’m about to tell you,” he said, “has been WindClan’s closest-kept secret since our colonies began. I hope my ancestors will forgive me for giving you this information.”

The other cats glanced curiously at each other.

“WindClan’s moor has a tunnel system that cobwebs all over our territory.” Rookstar’s eyes were pained, like he was pulling his teeth out telling them this. “We use it to travel in secret and silence, and for sneak attacks on prey and foes.”

So that’s why they always appear out of nowhere. Firestar’s eyes widened. They’ve been underground this whole time.

“How have none of us known this?” Leopardstar looked baffled. “Not a single cat in RiverClan has heard of these.”

“We make a point of not telling anyone.” Rookstar flicked his snake-long tail. “My suggestion is that we lead the Blood up into the moor and attack them from the tunnels once they reach us.”

“A journey that far into our lands would tire them out,” Firestar offered. “And if we play it right, the loners with us wouldn’t give them time to realize their mud-markings mean something before they attack too.”

Brick perked up. “Am I allowed to make a suggestion?”

“Speak,” Blackstar said curtly.

Brick lifted a paw and used it to point at the ground. “Us town cats could pretend to be chasing some of your Clan cats up the moor and out of your territories.” He swept his paw up to point at the hill ahead of him. “The Blood would be keen to help with that, and with our backs to them for most of the time, they wouldn’t easily notice the mud on our faces. Meanwhile, we’ve been here the whole time, rested and fed…”

“…And our cats can make that journey up the hill easily,” Leopardstar finished. “Rookstar, your warriors could be the bait. No one would be even slightly out of breath by the time they hit our hiding spot.”

A thought came to Firestar. “Would the Blood be suspicious as to why you’re here first?”

“Oh, we were just excited to make dibs on some land,” Brick said, lax. “We’re in the process of scaring off WindClan warriors who spotted us and came to intimidate us away first. They charge us right as the Blood show up, we fight back, they run up the hill, and we follow them, thinking they’re running to their camp.”

“Meanwhile, the rest of us have hidden or fled, if it comes to that,” a RiverClan warrior said, speaking up for the first time. “You haven’t seen us at all, but the scent of our Clans is coming from the direction of the sunrise. We must have run away.”

Brick nodded to her. “They’ll accept that. Knowing the Scourge, he’ll probably want to ensure the remaining Clan cats are exterminated, and he’ll send his whole troupe to follow.”

Leopardstar’s claws flashed, as did her eyes. “And then, as they’re above us, we burst out of the ground, and Brick’s gang turns around and attacks the Blood before they know what’s going on.”

“I believe we can do this.” Blackstar wasn’t necessarily excited, but his eyes glinted in determination. “We ought to move up there quickly, once everyone’s eaten.”

“There is one thing.”

Everyone looked at Brick again. He looked unusually serious.

“These cats will fight until they die for the Scourge,” he said. “If you plan to kill anyone at all, he goes first. Most of them don’t think he’s of this earth. If you can prove he’s just as mortal as anyone else, their confidence will shatter and they’ll cut the fight short.”

Firestar’s stomach knotted.

“Then all of us will target him,” Leopardstar said. “Not that we weren’t planning to already.”

“What of his other superiors?” Blackstar asked.

“We’re nothing without him.” Brick’s eyes narrowed. “Cut the head off and the body stops moving, even if the limbs are in working order.”

“Then Scourge takes priority,” Rookstar said. “Let’s talk to our cats.”

Firestar was the last to stand and follow Rookstar, and he didn’t pay attention as the tom gave out the orders, nor did he notice Violet’s kits being led up the hill by Lavenderflower and a lanky WindClan molly.

All he could see was the muddy ground turning red and sticky.

All he could hear was screaming cats, wailing in pain or shrieking in bloodthirst.

How many cats would die tomorrow, even though only Scourge needed to?

They’re on the road for a few hours -far enough out of town that they won’t be heard or helped by the Vallakai guards and not far enough along that there’s any chance of anyone from Krezk catching wind of anything suspicious- when Izek slows the horse to a reluctant stop, uneasy in his seat, readjusting to pull his sword up. Muriel, flying overhead, circles around, wary of landing anywhere. Imrath perks up as soon as he notices Izek’s unease, hand on his own hilt.

“There’s a log across the path.” He’s tense, already on a swivel, scanning the tree line when he warns, “This is a trap.”

Imrath doesn’t need to be told twice. As soon as the situation is narrated to him he’s feet on the ground, wasting no time walking around up in front of their horse, patting its flank as he passes. “Wixen,” He calls, “Help me please.”

“Sure thing!” She bounds off the wagon, rocking it on its wheels and knocking Marileina around inside as she’s up on her feet, moving to peek out the front window around Izek’s arm.

“Oof- Watch it, Wixen.” Marileina grumbles, however unheard, on principle before settling into the sill. “Hey, did you say trap?” She squints, then pokes Izek’s side and points towards the side of the road. “Does that look like it’s been cut?”

Izek growls, nodding. “Yes, it does.”  This is definitely a trap, and Izek is especially aware that moving a healthy felled tree -at full weight, neither small or dead wood- will require all four hands. Imrath and Wixen will be unarmed, bent over, and distracted, and he doesn’t like it. It doesn’t sit right in his gut. Muriel swoops down low in front of him, flapping hard, cawing, and darts back up into the sky, screaming again.

Something’s wrong.

He sits up, about to bark at them to hurry, breath already built in his chest when a heavy black shadow fills the side of his vision, over his shoulder, lunging from behind- from the blindspot alongside the wagon. Hands rip him over backwards off his seat and fling him into the dirt before he can turn to face it or raise his sword properly. He roars, already grabbing a fistfull of fur and kicking the weight that lands, digging upward with his pommel when the smell hits him, and he knows. Rancid. Wet. Dog.

Bloody werewolves.

Then the teeth appear out of the maw that splits open the darkness when the wolf turns around, fur rolling over muscle turning on itself -inhuman, ripping hair out in his fingers- twisting animal skin underneath his grip- Why can’t he fucking hold it?! Where’s its neck? All he can see is black and beady eyes shining and teeth and red gums and spittle- It’s hot on his face, the snapping of the jaw trying to rend him apart echoes so loud he barely hears the other wolves snarling across the clearing. 

Shit. He bloody knew this was gonna happen!

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As soon as Muriel’s alarm and Izek’s roar break the silence, the tension of the clearing snaps with it. Like a flash flooding river that laps at ankles first, the rest of the pack tear out from the underbrush all around, shredding the ground, kicking up dust and half dead leaves and twigs that get caught in their fur, growling and gnashing teeth. Imrath and Wixen both abandon the log and jerk back to their heights, back to back for the attack they’ve been anticipating with claws and teeth of their own bared. Wixen chatters and Imrath’s hiss beats like a bass against his ribs. The pack sets out in loping circles around their prey, howling, mocking, snapping at fingers, and prodding for a weak spot. 

Imrath, who is far too far away from the wagon to tell what’s happening, tilts his head trying to listen for anything beyond the thunder of -what? like twenty feet? Shit, he can’t tell. Frustrated, he nudges Wixen, asking, “What’s going on over there?”

But she’s preoccupied, vying for the fight she’s been looking forward to all day! Wixen breaks out into cackling laughter without answering him and launches herself hand over foot on all fours to meet a werewolf halfway as it charges her, colliding into it at the knees and bowling it over her back as she aims for the throat of a second wolf behind it. Tricksy and feral, she darts and rolls and fights like a child playing their favorite game, laughing and taunting them, leaving Imrath’s back exposed.

He turns, double checking behind him in time to feel her disappear out of his periphery just as he starts to feel the clawing fingers of the wolves still racing towards him moving in the edges of his vision in front. Torm preserve him, he’s never missed Nyerg more than at this exact moment. Nyerg wouldn’t scamper off out of a formation. Nyerg would watch his back and probably rip a werewolf in half, the big idiot. But this isn’t Thymara and Wixen isn’t anything like a fellow soldier he could depend on.

He knew that already. 

“Fine.” Imrath huffs and the word smokes out between his fangs as he turns back, roaring a cone of fire in an arc towards the werewolves that have finally closed in. He’s fought worse, he’ll be fine.

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Snarling, snapping animal noises give way in his ringing ears to hoarse, croaky laughter. Sound out of a throat not meant for words. Grating, the words drip and curl down onto him like viscera. “Little Stazni.” The biggest wolf of the pack that has him pinned drawls, “I remember you. I remember the taste of you! I wonder. Do you remember me?”

“Fuck you!” Izek growls his own animalistic noises, focusing all of his strength on not losing grip on the beast’s hide, keeping it pushed off him as far as he can. He needs to get his heel hooked enough to shove it off- can’t let it get its teeth in him. He could drop his sword and probably force his hand down to his belt for the dagger there, but then he’s unarmed. Shit he needs room. Izek spits, “One mutt is the same as another.”

“Jorgun is my name. I was there when your parents came hunting, before you grew so big and mean. And look!” The wolf laughs, ignoring him, digging claws into his right shoulder and pulling at the muscle there -and Izek would give anything in this moment for his old arm back, to burn the fucker to a crisp- “You grew another just for me, right? I wonder if it will be as delicious as the last~?”

Fur brushes against his nose and Izek turns his head, panting, hyperventilating, digging the side of his face into the ground to avoid it. Shit. Shit shit shit not again- Come on, Izek. He refuses to freeze this time, and digs his boots into the ground to find purchase. Anything. He’s got to move!

“We didn’t think you’d live when they took you. Thought surely that since you did, you’d turn.” The wolf’s tone dips, faking sadness that can’t sustain itself. Not when having his prey back in his grasp pulls a cruel, smug smile across his face. “I stalked the village walls for weeks waiting on you to crawl out to me to join us.” 

He’d rather die. He’d rather- “M’ gonna fuckin kill you.” Izek snarls, twisting himself up and lifting the werewolf -for just a second- up off his chest, gaining a precious inch to twist his blade and wedge it up. 

An inch is an inch. He has to fight. Has to survive. Mari needs him. He’s got work to do. Izek strains for another.

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Izek’s boots, upside down, disappear out of view and Marileina screams after him, “Izek!” Ready to crawl her way out the too small wagon window into the seat after him, already scrambling until she sees the back of the hulking mass of werewolf engulf him and yanks her arm back inside. “Oh shit.” She scurries back and stands up, wipes her hands nervously on her skirt. “Okay. Okay.” She huffs, steels herself, and white-knuckles her wand just as the wagon door in front of her creaks.

Wide-eyed, cornered, Mari shrieks when the door is ripped off its hinges and point-blank blasts a gale of ice spikes through the open mouth of a werewolf when it appears in the doorway, claws out to grab her. The force of it kicks her back, landing hard, shaking the wagon, with her shoulders dug into the far wall, knees bent but not buckled. The wolf flies back, dead on the spot, mouth open, head coated in a block of red ice.

“Ha!” Marileina stands up, glancing between her hands and the dead monster, “Ha-HA!” 

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Imrath slashes across the hide of werewolf that runs by, snapping at his legs, snarling in its wake, and reaches into the bag of creatures on his waist for a little help. As soon as he feels feathers instead of fur, it can only be one creature, and he barks out a laugh, plan striking and solidifying like a bolt of lightning. She’ll love it. 

A knife edge beak on a thick, hatcheting neck emerges first, and the axebeak inside is squawking and kicking her way up out of the bag before he can pull her all the way out, as eager for action and blood on her beak as always. 

“Jester!” He shouts, grin evident, greeting her and calling her attention. She trills happily, wriggling in his hand and he echoes her call as he pulls back, holding her like a javelin by the breastbone. “Dinner time!” 

And Imrath launches his axebeak overhead - straight into the face of a werewolf that tries to skid to a stop and backpedal, but gets knocked onto its back, winded, when the weight of a terror bird hits it in the chest. One of the talons on her feet rip open its face when they land, sliding off. The other foot, holding all her weight in one place when she steps back up, crushes a rib as she digs in. Jester, thrilled to be loose, screams bloody murder. The vestigial wings that her species had long since traded in favor of the capacity for grievous bodily harm flapping wildly, she brings her face -and the wedge thicker and sharper than any wood splitter of her beak- down as hard as she can over and over, watering the ground with blood.

Now, if you’ve never seen an axebeak, it’s a hell of a creature. And if you’ve never seen one chase down and beat to death a werewolf, it’s a hell of a thing. A squawking, hissing, flurry of bone-breaking kicks and flesh rending bites and slashes running amok through the battlefield taking chunks out of tenderloins and snapping at the tendons in heels. Occasionally, when Imrath throws back his head and chirps to her when she sprints past his fight, she calls back, spurred on, screeching like breaking glass.

Wixen might have felt bad for whichever poor mangy dog the axebeak set her sights on -if she cared, which she doesn’t, and wasn’t hellbent on killing a couple herself, which she is. Still, the racket of that thing running back and forth across the clearing taking merciless chunks out of werewolf after werewolf is chaotic cacophonous music to her ears and solidly earns Jester the Axebeak first place in her opinion of Imrath’s critter companions.

Jester runs around her fight, then once she’s past, seems to have her brain catch up to her legs and skids to a stop. She looks back at the werewolf Wixen is actively fighting, and apparently, makes the decision to choose violence, spinning in place to run back over. With frankly comedic timing, the giant bird comes to a stop, pauses, bobs her head to check the aim, and then ratchets her head back and chops a bloody chunk out. The werewolf yowls, grabs its shoulder, and spins around to fight on a new front only for Jester to bob her head again, scream in its face, and take off, full speed, in a new direction. Wixen busts out laughing, doubled-over clutching her sides, hard enough that the damn wolf manages to punch her in the face but it’s too good. Worth it.

Definitely Wixen’s favorite.

______________________________________________________________

The big wolf pinning Izek down -Jorgun, the leader of this scouting party and a man with a real grudge against the Stazni’s- doesn’t seem bothered by the chaos around them, singularly occupied by his prey. He leans down into Izek’s face, patronizing, he muses. “I wonder if you even remember that night. Do you?”

Izek wrestles for all he’s worth, half blacked out in an increasingly panicked rage of tunnel vision and single thoughts - fighting for his life all over again. This fucking werewolf will get no response from him. He can barely hear the bloody thing anyway, with the blood rushing in his head like deafening cotton making everything sound and feel too far away. It’s too much like passing out, and Izek is desperate to hold on, to get his sword drawn up enough to run the beast through, to stay alive- but his thoughts bleed when his miserable ears catch up to what it’s saying and drag up fragments of memories he’d forgotten. 

“I do. Your father had a set of lungs on him, didn’t he? Yelled loud enough to be heard all the way out past the hunting grounds.” Disgusted, the werewolf snarls, “Those wretched hunters took their bodies from me last time - stole my kills! - so I didn’t get to offer them up like I should have, but don’t you worry-” It reaches out, grabbing his face, and Izek thrashes to no real avail. As soon as he yanks his chin free the werewolf snarls, presses down harder, popping a rib that forces Izek to suck in a harsh breath, and snatches him back up. Claws curl around the backside of his jaw, filthy padded fingers across the lower half of his face. “You won’t get away from me this time.”

Izek writhes, world drowned out by the echoes of his father’s voice going hoarse, the snarling and clashing of swords that’s haunted him for a decade doubled over with the sounds all around them, of his team, his friends, his family fighting. Again. Jorgun’s stupid ugly dog mouth curls up, grinning, and the hand on Izek’s jaw squeezes.

“You’ve got your mother’s little jaw. I bet it’ll be just as easy to break as hers was.” 

He remembers her scream, when rage had given way to anguish, when the sound had changed around broken bones and bubbled out of blood filling her mouth. He remembers hacking and slashing, doing everything he could to make it to her, seeing her dragged behind a tree and running blind to catch up, trying to remember everything they had taught him about form and function and forgetting it all in the moment of seeing his mother’s big grey eyes - the same as Marileina’s - watering and scared over a red, crooked -broken- jaw.

Not of the wolves. Mum isn’t scared of werewolves. She’s not scared of anything- 

“RUN! RUN, IZEK!”

He can’t hear anything. Not even the monster overtop of him through the static in his ears. She had been scared for him. Izek stares up, wide-eyed, seeing nothing. His hands are locked in place, digging the guard of his sword up into the werewolf’s side as its voice echoes through his bones, unavoidable, laughing at him- making fun of him- making fun of his mum and dad. Rushing blood boils and he lifts. Gains another inch, shoving the beast that little bit farther off, claws dragging, snarling, drooling mangy dog. Through the rest of the sounds of the night his parents died -of their bones breaking, their shrieking, his dad’s voice calling his name, demanding he run- Izek remembers something new.

______________________________________________________________

“Sword up, son! Mind your form.” Ivan’s voice, his papa, for what little he remembers of his face -he remembers the way his big beard moved when he smiled and the bald spot from the scar on his lip that cut his mustache in half on one side- is deep and baritone that rumbles, amused, out of his father’s barrel chest from across the yard. “You’ll need to be able to keep up with your mum if you want us to take you hunting.” He teases.

And in a voice that hasn’t been this high for so long that he had forgotten the sound of his own voice before it broke, Izek puffs out his chest and forces his sword higher and his elbows straighter. “I will! I’m paying attention!” Shoulders back, hairless face twisted and wrinkled in concentration while he mirrors the motion Yulia is modeling, stepping through their daily drills. He needs to know his way around a blade, and how to handle himself on his feet if he’s ever going to take on monsters.

“I’m gonna,” He swings, stepping forward, driving the motion, “Kill!” Grinning, he spins and cuts back up, “Them!” And finishes as his mother’s chest-high shadow, “All!”

Yulia laughs out loud at his enthusiasm, flipping her sword up and onto her shoulder. “Husbaaand,” She scolds as she walks over to their son and wraps her hand around over the whole side of his head, pulling him into her side for a hug. “He is doing well!” She ruffles his hair, leaning over to plant a loud kiss onto the side of his forehead. “Very well, Izya. Your hunger for the fight will serve you well when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now, Mum.” Young Izek cranes his neck looking up over-vertical at his mother. Her hand moves automatically to cup his face, smiling at her son but also humming in a tone that means she doesn’t agree. 

“Soon, Izya.” She pinches his cheek that makes him shrug his shoulders up and squirm to escape. “You’ve got more growing to do before I let my baby loose on a werewolf pack. Now, that’s enough training today.” She pats his cheek, heavy handed and sturdy but loving, to set him going. “Go clean up for supper.”

Izek sighs, unwilling and better trained than to argue with his mum, before pulling himself together and sitting down on an upturned log next to his father. He gets to work checking his sword and tending to any spots that need to be oiled, just like they always taught him. A blade you care for is a blade that will keep you alive once Izek takes up the mantle of werewolf hunter himself. The boy is well suited. He has the bloodlust and fearlessness for it, and wants nothing more than to lob off a head. But he is a good boy, just like mumma taught him to be, and Ivan is eternally amused by his son’s stiff upper lip and commitment to following Yulia’s direction. He gets it, he does what his wife says too. She’s a beautiful, scary lady.

Still, he feels for the boy. Ivan leans over, whispering conspiratorially, even waggling his eyebrows when his son looks up. “I bet if you do the dishes and we ask later she’ll let you tag along when I go hunting tonight. I saw deer sign but we might find a wolf.”

Little Izek’s eyes light up, practically bouncing in his seat. “Can I shoot it?!”

Ivan laughs heartily, throwing a big arm around Izek’s shoulders. “You can try! Just don’t miss!”

“I won’t miss!”

______________________________________________________________

Izek isn’t privy to the broken, livid snarling sounds he’s making when his own jaw gives way. Too caught up reliving memories and nightmares and seething, babbling curses and promises to kill.

Marileina is, though, as she hops down from the wagon steps, no longer caught off guard with magic glimmering across her skin. Muriel caws again, and a second werewolf, smaller and scrawnier -some runt- tries to sneak up on her the way their leader had Izek, but Muriel is keeping a close eye overhead and she’s ready this time. She slices across its face with the tip of her sword as she runs out, barely dodging the claws swinging over her head.

“Hey!” She yells, and Jorgun, if he hears her at all, ignores her entirely, digging his claws farther into Izek’s cheeks, aiming to collapse the dislocated bone- Silly, really, when Marileina has a spell leveled at his back. “Get off him!”

Frigid water rushes forward in a wave that breaks on the werewolf and Izek both, flooding them, soaking them, and rolling Jorgun off. He tumbles a couple of times before he rights himself and gets his claws dug back into solid ground, shaking off, snarling-

______________________________________________________________

Izek splutters, coughing water, grabbing at nothing, trying to catch his breath and bearings.

“Izek!” Marileina’s face, lit up with a grin and a twinkle in her eye, appears above him, and he stares up, seeing their mother again in the flesh in her features while he sucks in a ragged breath. “I killed one!” Little hands ball up the front of his shirt, hooked on the edges of his armor, shaking him as much as she can. “I did it! I killed one! C’mon!” She yanks, too weak to move him, so he tries to do it for her, sitting up, braced on an arm. “It’s your turn! Get up already!”

There is bloodlust and joy in her little face, beaming at him. She bounces in place, giggling, and looses another spell that chunks shards of ice into Jorgun when he tries to get back up, coating him in frost and slicing through his fur like blades. Her laughter turns into a mad woman’s cackle and she takes off to sate her love for the fight, bounding over Izek’s legs, headlong and excited into the fray.

Shit. Bright. Izek hisses when she goes, squinting and rolling automatically up onto a knee, sword in hand, pushing himself up with the other, panting to catch his breath past the blood dribbling down his chin and cold water dripping into his eyes.

The sight of Marileina’s little back running off, wand raised in one hand, rapier in the other, hurling insults and cheering back with the others yell her name, happy to see her join in -and they seem fine. Wixen is laughing. Imrath is comfortable enough to turn away from the werewolf in his face and raise his sword, a toast to Mari. They’re winning. It’s the snap back to reality he needs.

Mari is scarcely older than he was then. 

She’s as much of a Stazni, a werewolf hunter, as he is. Just as hungry for it.

Sword up, Izek.

The bastard that killed their parents is here. Within reach. A mistake Jorgun will die for. The mantle he trained for, the boy his parents’ raised, clicks back into place where it was meant to fit, and Izek gets to his feet. 

Damn broken, adrenaline floods his system and he sees red. He runs after Mari, too full of rage to be anything but untouchable, and goes after Jorgun with a righteous, merciless, vengeance.

______________________________________________________________

Ionel had taken his initial leave of the battlefield as soon as the giant bird got ahold of his left arm and shook him like a ragdoll into the tree line. He’s not one to overlook a convenient opportunity to catch his breath and look for a weakness. Or stupid enough to run right back into battle when he was just flung, either. Not like the rest of them, so eager to follow Jorgun into danger.

He circles the clearing, sneaking from tree to tree, trying to figure out who he should go for. Not that crazy shifter woman. God no. The lizard man, maybe, but he’s doing a bit too well against Calin and Ionel wants nothing to do with that. There’s no good place for him to sneak in there. The mage girl, maybe, or that pesky raven if it would ever swoop low enough again…

______________________________________________________________

Imrath has another werewolf’s teeth denting his vambrace when he hears the fight kick up again behind him, and grabs a fist full of the wolf’s chest fur so he can drag it with him, trying to get close enough to tell what’s happening. 

It uses the momentum to try to flip him onto his back, tries to pull its mouth off his forearm to aim a better bite, but Imrath’s fought people with worse bite forces and shoves back, digs his armor in farther, sticking it in the beasts’ molars, and yanks down. Teeth caught on the filigree in the shape of Amaunator’s sun are forced to follow, pulling the wolf face down towards all-fours. And when it does break loose and start to slide down his arm, Imrath sets his own claws deep into the side of its face and keeps it down. Claws scratch at his chest plate and bleed on the edges of his holy symbol, and Imrath follows through the motion as quick as he can, sinking his shortsword through the werewolf’s ribs. 

Flesh gives way viscerally and he can tell when the end of the blade stabs out the other side, wedged under a shoulder blade. Blood soaks through his mail, hot and sticky on his skin as the body drops to the ground and he wrenches his sword free with a wet grinding squelch.

By the time he stands up to get his bearings with two more kills under his belt, he can feel that the fight is all but won. Wixen and Jester are having a good time picking apart a wolf they have pinned between them, and the whole field is chilled by all of Mari’s ice sticking out of and frosting over the bodies of fallen werewolves that she caught -sitting ducks for the others to finish, and a couple she dealt the final blow to herself.

And he can feel Izek. Fighting, shouting, snarling, and swinging down on a big werewolf that he has limping and half-cornered against a stump that turns more and more to sawdust whenever the wolf manages to dodge and Izek’s sword sinks into the wood. It gets in the occasional hit, but Izek never falters.

Imrath lets himself smile. He wanders over to Marileina’s side, standing beside where she’s found a seat on the same log that started all this mess, chin in her hands, watching Izek hunt down his long awaited revenge. 

Good. It’s nice to see him having a good time. Fighting like he used to -like he did when they were putting down that fiend in town when they first met. Imrath is happy to see that the hag fight wasn’t a fluke, that he’s getting back to being himself after what he’s dealt with.

Marileina glances up at him, then pokes him in the leg and pats the space beside her, which he accepts graciously. Abstractly, he can recognize that there is an amount of fairytale propriety in sitting down with the countess he is fighting so hard to establish, watching her right hand man put an end to the monster that made orphans of both of them. She’s not a princess, he’s not a knight, and there’s a much more dangerous monster looming large on the horizon, but it’s close enough and it makes him nostalgic.

He taps Mari on the shoulder, smiling down at her conspiratorially like he would with his sisters as he weaves a little sunlight into the metal of Izek’s blade. The raging fighter doesn't need it, he’s cutting the beast to ribbons as is, but Imrath takes a lot of pride in the manic uptick in his roaring when the magic sings and his hits do even more damage, and the delighted giggle from Marileina.

______________________________________________________________

Izek’s forward march toward the end of this werewolf’s miserable life is relentless. He sweeps Jorgun’s ankles in the second the wolf turns to leap, to get a little distance between them, room to breathe and launch another swing, to gain a little ground, but Izek’s sword makes contact and he slices through tendons and cracks delicate, elongated bones. The werewolf yelps and growls, stumbles and curses, and tries to gouge a few steps on his arms, turning himself around, twisting over grinding bone and bleeding flesh to sink his teeth into Izek's leg. 

Jaws snap closed around nothing and Izek plants his boot squarely on the beast’s wound, crushing the rest of that heel into bits. Jorgun howls in pain and Izek takes the moment of weakness to drive his sword into his right shoulder socket, twisting and hacking and ripping to maul the arm off. Taking the thing the fucker took from him first. His voice is distorted, slurred where his jaw is stuck open, still dislocated, but he’ll feel the pain later. 

“Look a’ you ‘ow! How's ‘dat ‘ey?! ‘amn you! ‘amn you ‘amn you ‘amn you!” He mocks, curses, punctuating each swing. He takes off one arm, then the other, then hacks and hacks and hacks long after the werewolf's corpse stops making noise or moving on its own, until the body looks more like mincemeat and ground bone in a split open fur sack than a carcass. And still, he smashes apart any piece that might be recognizable.

______________________________________________________________

Mari brushes her skirt clean from the worst of the dirt and debris from her fights, then turns and does the same to Imrath’s, little nose wrinkled, mumbling about how much messier he gets from relying on metal armor instead of magic, that he really should learn her spell one of these days. It reminds him of his own sister in many ways, all the times she had fixed his clothes over the years, making some smart comment about him not needing to get dressed blind, Imrath. It's endearing, and he keeps still for her until she's satisfied. Then they return to content, companionable silence for a moment longer just watching Izek roar and cuss through the overkill, enjoying the show, until Imrath tilts his head towards her.

He nods towards Izek, asking, “He’s hurt, isn’t he?” He can hear something wrong in the sound of his battle cries…

Mari takes a breath, shoulders up, like she’s going to launch into something, but then just deflates in her seat, gaze cast across the road where he’s getting even more messy than Imrath. “Yeaaaah. Yeah he is.” She purses her lips, “But I’m not getting in the middle of that.”

“No.” Imrath agrees. It’d be dangerous, of course. Izek isn’t in his right mind right now. But also, “Let him have his fun.” 

“He is having fun.” Mari smiles at her big brother, then up at Imrath. “This whole fight was fun. I killed four!”

“It was. I got two, I think.” Imrath pets through Jester’s feathers when she wanders over to him and lays her blood covered head over his shoulder, rumbling a comfort from deep in his chest. “And you,” He nuzzles the side of her beak, “Killed at least two yourself, Jester.”

The axebeak squawks happily and puffs out her feathers, proud of herself and preening.

“I shot a spike of ice right through one’ face!” She launches into the first of what will be many epic retellings of the day, filling him in on all the parts of the fight he had been too far away to comprehend.

______________________________________________________________

Jorgun fell. 

Ionel watches, wide-eyed as the sword slashes across his packmate’s neck. Hears the death rattle as he curses the man looming over him, sword up for the finishing blow. The younger werewolf looks away before the crunch, eyes darting between the bodies of his pack littering the ground. A spear of ice sticks out of Aurel’s back. Calin’s been run through and lays in a puddle of his own blood growing cold. 

Shit. They’re all dead.

Wet sounds pull his ears back around and he knows what he will see before his eyes follow. Jorgun’s dead -the strongest of them is dead.

And Stazni is maiming him.

Shit. He needs to get out of here, back to the den! He can regroup, break the news to their alpha and maybe put together a better party to avenge them. He crouches, hair on the back of his neck raised, tail tucked, and backs away as silently as he can. He can’t afford any breaking sticks giving him away-

“Going somewhere?” An accented Vistana voice from behind him makes Ionel jump, spinning to face her.

Fuck. Just his luck. 

______________________________________________________________

A werewolf breaks out of the bushes in a full sprint on all fours, hand over foot running as fast as it can for the far treeline. Wixen and Marileina jump up with their weapons ready. Mari has her wand reared back, ice dancing in the air again, ready to add another werewolf to her count, when Imrath feels the familiar crackle through the air. Ozone prickling across the ends of his horns, buzzing in the back of his teeth. Muriel shrieks, flapping wildly towards the wagon, crash landing onto the ground just in time. Imrath turns in time to flinch at the flash of light unnaturally close to the ground as a lightning bolt shoots out, spanning the entire clearing. Stray sparks jump from tree to tree, and lightning runs the werewolf through in a split second, ending the last of them.

They all wait as the air cools, hair on end. Jester circles around Imrath and he keeps a hand on her flank, held at bay for the moment. Wixen sniffs the air, wrinkles her nose, and scratches the scent of burning meat back out of it. She's about to try again when the sound of crinkling leaves reaches them and the familiar magical wooden leg of Esmirelda d’Avenir steps out, followed by the rest of her beautiful figure, flipping an axe around in her hand.

“Well, well,” She’s grinning, Imrath can hear the way it stretches the words, “Look what the dogs dragged in.”

“Mir!” Wixen shouts, running over and meeting her halfway. Marileina and Muriel, now shifted back and only a little shaken and shaking from nearly being barbecued out of the sky, follow, eager to reunite with a friend.

“Ladies.” Mir bows, theatrical, and throws an arm around Wixen’s shoulders, smiling at all the girls. “I was about to go looking for you, you know? Where the hell have you been?”

“Eh, y’know.” Wixen shrugs, “Stuck in Ravenloft for a couple weeks.”

She gasps, loud and dramatic, and smacks Wixen’s bicep. “I knew I should have gone with you!” Whining, she glares, “I bet there was so much cool stuff in there!”

“So many magic artefacts, Mir! Look! C’mon!” Marileina takes the older woman by the wrist and pulls her, along with Wixen, who grabs Muriel’s hand in a long chain back towards the wagon, hopping over a corpse on her way to show off some of her spoils. 

Imrath hasn’t moved to meet them, still minding his axebeak, so he’s standing with a smile on his face and a content curve in the end of his tail when they make it over. “Hi, Mir. It’s good to see you.”

“And you are a sight for sore eyes, sunshine!” She smiles prettily, wiggling her fingers at him, ready with another comment on her lips, but Mir gets distracted. She pauses, lets Wixen walk on without her, and cocks her weight over top of her good leg, head tilted to look around Imrath’s shoulder at Izek. With an eyebrow arched all the way up into her hairline, she gets Marileina’s attention and pointing. “He knows it’s dead, right?”

“Oh yeah.” Mari pops back out of the wagon, arms full, and shrugs it off with a smile. “He’s just having fun now. It’s fine.” 

Mir glances around at the others, just to make sure. She knows Izek isn’t the most stable man in the world… but Wixen isn’t paying attention, busy picking something out of her tail. Poor Muriel looks a little apprehensive, flinching a bit at each wet smack of the blade back down, but otherwise isn’t fleeing back to her family. And Imrath. Mir purses her lips. Imrath is distracted, watching with a smitten smile on his face. 

Right. Well. Suppose it’s none of her business anyway. She shrugs. “Alright. Now, you said you have news about Strahd’s plan? What did you learn?”

“God.” Wixen flops out into the grass, spread eagle, “So much, Mir. Hope you’ve got time.”

______________________________________________________________

When the rage finally subsides and the world comes back into focus for him, Izek stands, heaving for breath, over the mangled corpse -or whatever remains remain- of his parents’ killer and the last chapter of an old tale. He’s covered in a fine red mist of blood and pieces and everything is starting to hurt. Cuts, scrapes, his fucked rib, and his jaw.

He groans, bloody glove coming up to hold his face, and slurs a curse out as best he can.

Imrath, who had been happily staring, blindfold pulled half off, squinting and dealing with the pain of it just to watch the spectacle that is Izek in a rage, standing pretty with his arms crossed comfortably, notices the change immediately. He had been, of course, ostensibly waiting for the right moment to step in and heal his friend… But he isn’t a liar, even to himself, and loves watching Izek go crazy. He enjoys the sight every time he can. 

“Izek.” He calls, doing nothing to temper the fondness oozing out in the tone as he walks up, arms open, held towards the man’s face. “Come here please. Give me your face, it’s broken.” 

“‘uckin hurts.” He accepts the help readily, eyes and nose twisting up in pain when Imrath’s hands cradle either cheek, feeling around to sheath his sword back on his belt before he forgets he's holding it.

“Ooh, and it’s gonna get worse.” Izek raises an eyebrow, and Imrath offers a sympathetic look. “It’s dislocated. I need to get it back in place.” He lets go of Izek’s face, takes both of the man’s hands and loops them around the front of his belt. “Brace, it’s not a gentle process.” 

Imrath explains that he’s got to push the bones from the outside and inside, that it will be awful while he does it, but it heals better if the magic isn’t the only thing moving it around. To distract them both, he keeps up idle chatter, explaining that even though he isn’t really a healer, he spent a lot of time helping their temple doctor and he’s seen and helped reduce several stuck open jaws over the years. All dragonborn breathe something, and most of them have popped a jaw joint out of place at least once -it comes with the territory, and most of them learn to pop them back in as part of their field training too.

“Humans aren’t all that different. Just don’t bite me, please.” Blindfold pulled back down, fingers splayed all the way across Izek’s face, Imrath waits for permission to shove his thumbs in the guy’s mouth. That’s not something you just do unless you’re ready to risk a finger.

“‘Ah should ‘ite you.” Izek threatens idly, and watches the corner of Imrath’s mouth twitch up into a smile, moving one of his hovering thumbs to Izek’s sore cheek to soothe. 

The thought occurs to him that he could. He could turn right now and take a bite out of the meat of that thumb where it’s already holding him, taking some of the weight of his jaw. Imrath would probably just stand there and let him do it too. Izek could undo his armor enough to sink his teeth in farther up, if he tried, the trusting idiot. He wonders if he’d jump, if he’d flinch, what noise he’d make- His hands twitch and eyes wander, thinking about reaching for the buckles that secure his bracer or the hinge on his chestplate. The chainmail underneath is easy enough to shove out of the way… Alright. Focus. 

Izek sucks in a breath, tightens his grip, and sets his shoulders square. Can't do anything with his mouth hanging open like this. “O’hay. Do it.”

It’s a bright affair, with both of them closing their eyes as tight as they can against the sunlight so close to their faces. The magic is warm, comforting, and Izek feels the tug again against the new soul in his chest when it seeps into his skin. Still new, still strange, but he’s getting used to it. It helps either way, to dull the pain down into a humming, singing ache. A din in his ears, conducted from Imrath’s thumbs planted between his molars, through his jawbone as the paladin pries it back into place. 

Careful claws push and pull and pinch. Imrath mumbles quiet and focused, close to his face, reminding him, “Don’t tense your jaw. Take a breath. I got you.”

Izek growls, breathing through his nose, trying not to fight it, and thinks about the last time he saw Imrath get one of his claws underneath the edge of a string and cut it without needing a pocket knife. The ends of them, dull but noticeable, dig in here and there. The man could have all his veins and arteries open right now if he wanted, and he’d fall limp and bleed out before any of the others had a chance to run over. The same that he uses to fix Izek’s hair before a meeting with someone he’s worried about impressing. Izek shifts his weight, gets mumbled at again, apologized to, and tries not to think too much about it before he gets distracted.

Focus, Izek. 

There’s blood in his mouth, copper sour on the back of his tongue dribbling out with the drool flooding his teeth. Some of it's his, he’s sure, but some is the werewolf’s too, and he’d rather not swallow and risk infection.

The bone shifts slowly, fighting itself and them both. The magic rings so loud that he can’t hear Imrath’s instructions or his cooing anymore, and burns so bright that he starts to see colors moving in the back of his eyelids. Louder, brighter, and Izek digs dents into the leather of the belt he’s using to keep himself in place, feeling Imrath’s weight shift around to counter his as he pushes harder and harder until it clicks back in. Imrath hums, satisfied and smiling when the light fades and Izek can open his eyes again. He still sees spots. 

“There.” He pulls his thumbs out, hooking them around the bottom of Izek’s jaw and holds his mouth closed, fingers prodding in front of his ears, checking the joint, massaging sore muscles, and holding it in place while the last of the magic weaves him back together. “Good as new.”

“Hmm.” Izek nods, moving Imrath’s hands with him, and pats Imrath’s side, mumbling. “Thanks.”

“Of course. Try not to open it too wide for a bit.” Imrath waits, cradling his face for another second before he steps back, blood and drool dripping back off his fingers that he wipes on a cloth from one of his pockets while Izek spits the rest of the taint into the grass.

______________________________________________________________

Izek gets a thorough look-over by Marileina once he and Imrath rejoin the party. She jumps up, their break, snacks, and magical show and tell forgotten. She’s on him in a flash, all up in his face, poking and prodding to turn his face. “Mercy Izek. There’s so much blood on you I can’t see anything.” 

Esmirelda was in the middle of recounting her efforts to hunt the werewolf pack, all the ones she’s picked off in the past month while they’ve been gone -and Imrath has the courtesy to duck his head and act bashful when she points that comment at him- when he sinks down to the ground against the wagon wheel with a tired groan.

Across the group, Muriel leans over, stiff, towards Mir, whispering out the side of her mouth, “I guess he really wanted to make sure it was dead.” And Imrath snorts about it, but both are drowned out by Wixen crawling between them to join Mari. 

She pops up at Izek’s elbow snickering and reaches up to poke him in the forehead, rough when she wipes a glob off onto her thumb. “Hells, Izek, you haven’t been covered in this much blood since I had to rip your arm off~!” 

“Oh yeah. That reminds me,” He’s in a good mood from the fight, still keyed up, and manages to grab her by the scruff when she tries to scamper off after teasing him. He lifts her up off the ground, lip curled to mirror her own bared teeth, “I have a bone to pick with you about that.”

______________________________________________________________

The two of them squabble for a while; Izek giving her shit for not at least using a knife to get his arm off and Wixen defending herself that the sword was melting and she didn’t have much choice about it. They bicker and shove at each other until they’re scrapping in the grass, both equally having fun and working out their differences -that is, until they roll too close to the rest of the group and Imrath catches a foot to the side of his head. The other three girls gasp, oooh, and snicker when he jumps into the fray himself with a tired, animalistic hiss, shouting at them with all the dragon magic in his blood to drop it already.

They both jump, scolded, and Wixen takes the chance to wriggle out of Izek’s hold and scurry off, laughing in his face and smacking him with her tail. He grabs after her, moving to chase, but Imrath’s hand pushes his head down, already on his feet and following. “Down boy, I got her.”

______________________________________________________________

Once he catches up to her, Imrath indulgently assists his friend with her morbid shopping spree, dutifully holding whatever werewolf head she’s decided might be the one she wants and carrying it around the clearing to hold up for side-by-side comparison with the others. It’s not like it’s the first head she’s collected or the first time he’s helped collect a trophy.

Mir, bless her, gets distracted watching him raise one head, then the other, for Wixen who is thinking hard about her selection -complete with her hand tapping her chin and all- for a long moment before she turns to Muriel. “She’s keeping a head?”

“A skull!” Muriel answers energetically.  

The Vistana woman turns back. Wixen is working her way through another neck, having picked a new favorite. It seems a morbid thing to keep, especially since it’ll look so bad to anyone not willing to hear out her claim that it’s a werewolf and she’s definitely not some deranged murderer. Unless? Mir raises an eyebrow, “She knows they transform back, right? It’ll look like any other human skull tomorrow.”

Muriel frowns, leaning around to watch with her. “Oh noooo. She was so excited about it. She’s been talking about it for the past couple days.”

“Wixen!” Mir cups her hands around her mouth to be heard, “You know they don't stay that shape, right?”

The shifter freezes mid-saw, and both her and Imrath’s heads pop up. Wixen looks distraught. “They don't???”

“Nope.” Mir pops the ‘P’ for effect, shaking her head and all her curls. “They’ll revert by morning.”

“Ah dammit!” Wixen throws her dagger down in frustration into the chest of the werewolf Imrath is still holding. Leaving it half-decapitated she turns, kicking the other head she’d been considering as hard as she can. It bounces past the tree line. “What the hell did I wait for then?!” 

Imrath, who was already making a face about being left with a mess in his hands, brows pinched together, wrinkles his nose and looks at her. Feathers pinned back, he drops the body and dusts off his hands, asking, “Wait, wait for what?” 

Wixen, pissed and pouting, stomps off into the woods, waving him off instead of answering.

He frowns and props his hands on his hips. He doesn't like the sound of that.

______________________________________________________________

It takes about an hour for Wixen to come back from working off her frustration -demolishing a nearby tree somewhere, by the sounds of it- and return. By which time everyone is rested up enough and starting to feel the grunge of sweat, dirt, and gore they’ve picked up. Even Muriel who had been flying around the whole time, is trying to scrub the bottom of her boots clean on a bunch of grass on the side of the road.

Esmirelda purses her lips. Giving everyone around a good look up and down, she nods to herself and claps, grabbing attention. “Alright darlings. Let’s get these bodies burnt and we can all clean up at the tower before we head to town.” She throws Izek a teasing look, which he glares at, “Don’t want to scare the townspeople, and we have things to talk about.”

Imrath pauses picking through the ends of his feathers to look up at her, and dread pools in his gut. 

Well. He had put it off for as long as possible, then.

Time to make a decision.

______________________________________________________________

The sting of the open air on his wounds kept him grounded. Every time he wanted to slip away from the present moment of anxiety and worry, retreat to some place where the last hour hadn’t happened, he’d breathe. The muscles between his collarbone and lower ribs stretched and flexed with every inhaled breath, skin pulled farther apart and then squeezed together by the pumping of his lungs. He’d laid down on top of his bed, over a towel, and waited. The cuts were too deep, the area too broad, for him to stitch himself. Jazz was coming. His sister was downstairs, pretending to study, helping maintain the sense of normalcy needed to convince their parents he was uninjured. His blood cooled a sticky combination of bright red and green, webs of ectoplasm stretching along the surface of the wounds, trying to pull them closed. It worked much better than his human blood’s clotting factor, flexible enough to move with his breathing, but tight enough to continually pull the frayed edges of his torn flesh closer with each passing second. It would make stitching easier. It always did.

Still, if he tried to raise his arms—twist to stitch himself—he’d just tear and re-open everything. So, he waited. He listened to the slugging of the water through the house’s pipes, the pattering of the branches against his window, felt the slimy sensation of blood leaking down his ribs, and waited. He was laying too flat for vertigo to harm him, even as he started spinning slowly while laying completely still, but if Jazz could hurry the fuck up, that’d be great. He hissed as he flexed a little to raise his head and look at the time. It’d only been another minute; it just felt like an eternity.

“ Sorry Danny,” the door closed with a quiet tap, “I had to wait for them to go back into the lab.”

“ No worries, not like I could go anywhere.” He heard her hissed intake of breath, could imagine the horrified looking expression to accompany it. “It smells like a butcher shop in here, and I look like an incompletely done up rack of ribs, but all of that is just dramatic window dressing. I’ll be fine.”

“ Where’s the first aid kit?”

As I delved deeper into my contemplation of Didyme, I couldn't help but ponder the circumstances surrounding her untimely death. Ever since the revelation, the other vampires perceived me in a different light. I was no longer just a vampire of great power, but something even more enigmatic.

I started to hear theories about Didyme's death, mostly from Amun, Vladimir and Stefan.

"The Children of the Moon must have did it," Amun had said to me. "This is why the vampires despise them. Dealing with those creatures, except for the purpose of extermination, is prohibited. Do you know that Cauis is terrified of them? He was nearly killed in a fight with one nearly two thousand years ago. Aro and Marcus knew about Caius' encounter, and since werewolves pose a threat to vampires everywhere, the werewolves were almost annihilated, resulting in near-extinction in Europe and Asia. What I've heard is that your sister is one of those creatures, and she's right for you and her not to make any contacts. Not just for her safety but your safety too."

"I think Aro did it," Vladimir had said too. "He saw Didyme's growing influence, her ability to bring joy and peace. Such a power threatened his iron grip over the Volturi. He couldn't afford a challenge to his authority, even from his own sister."

Stefan, always the cynic, nodded in agreement. "Aro has never been one to tolerate even the slightest risk to his control. He values power and order above all else. His sister's death may have served as a grim reminder to anyone who might dare to upset the balance he so meticulously maintains."

Their words echoed in my mind, each theory adding a layer of complexity to the mystery of Didyme's demise. Could it truly be that Aro had orchestrated his own sister's death to secure his reign? The thought was chilling, yet not entirely implausible given what I knew of Aro's ambition and ruthlessness.

As I trained with Kate, Zafrina, and Benjamin, their guidance became a welcome distraction from the swirling theories about Didyme's death. Each of them had unique abilities, and their insights were invaluable in helping me harness my own powers. Kate's ability to generate an electric current over her skin pushed me to test my limits, forcing me to adapt and strengthen my defensive skills. Zafrina's talent for creating vivid illusions helped me refine my mental focus and sharpen my senses, while Benjamin's control over the elements inspired me to explore the full extent of my potential.

“You did very well, Violet," Kate had praised me. Her encouraging words brought a small measure of comfort, but my mind remained restless.

Despite the rigorous training and the camaraderie I found with Kate, Zafrina, and Benjamin, I couldn't shake the sense of unease that had settled over me since the revelation about Didyme. The puzzle pieces of her life and death seemed scattered, and I was determined to put them together, no matter how long it took.

That evening, as we gathered in the Cullen's spacious living room, the atmosphere was a mix of anticipation and tension. The large windows offered a view of the twilight sky, and the soft glow of the setting sun cast long shadows across the room. Carlisle and Esme sat close together on one of the sofas, their expressions calm but concerned. Garrett and Kate stood by the fireplace, speaking in hushed tones. Edward and Bella were seated on another sofa, I was playing with Renesmee quietly on the floor.

And yet, as I played with her, I couldn't help but think that the vampire eyes were watching me. The weight of their gazes bore down on me, adding to the unease that had become a constant companion since the revelation about Didyme. Even as I smiled at Renesmee and listened to her delightful giggles, a part of me remained on high alert, scanning the room for any signs of danger or deceit.

"They're looking at you," I heard Renemesee's soprano voice through my head. I looked at her and I soon realised she was talking to me.

Startled, I glanced down at Renesmee, her innocent eyes wide with curiosity. She hardly spoken to anyone, at least that was what Edward and Bella were telling me and the other vampires.

"Why do you think they're looking at me?" I asked her silently, not wanting to draw any more attention.

Renesmee's small hand touched my cheek, and a flood of images and feelings washed over me. She showed me the way the others glanced at me, their eyes filled with a mix of concern, curiosity, and something else I couldn't quite decipher. In her own way, Renesmee was trying to tell me that they were worried, not just for me, but about me.

"It's because you're special," she said simply, her voice a gentle whisper in my mind. "Like me. We're both one of a kind."

Her words, so simple yet profound, resonated deeply within me. Special. The term felt both comforting and isolating. Being unique in the vampire world came with its own set of challenges and expectations.

I smiled down at Renesmee, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. "Thanks, Nessie," I whispered aloud this time.

Then, her warm, chocolate brown eyes drifted away from me and fixated on Vladimir and Stefan, the Romanian coven. For some reason, Renesmee found their presence utterly captivating. As I followed her gaze, I noticed the intensity with which the two vampires were observing us. Their expressions were unreadable, but there was a sense of calculation in their eyes that sent a shiver down my spine.

"They have their eyes on you too," Renesmee murmured, her voice tinged with a hint of concern. "But not in the same way as the others. They see something in you, something that intrigues them."

I felt a surge of unease at the thought of being scrutinized by vampires as powerful and enigmatic as Vladimir and Stefan. What could they possibly want with me? And why did Renesmee seem so drawn to them?

Before I could dwell on these questions any further, Edward and Bella appeared by our side, their expressions guarded as they took in the scene before them.

"Is everything alright?" Bella asked, her voice laced with a hint of worry.

I glanced back at Renesmee, who simply smiled serenely, her gaze still fixed on the Romanian coven. "Everything's fine, Momma," she replied, her voice filled with a quiet confidence that belied her young age.

As Vladimir and Stefan continued to watch us with their inscrutable expressions, I couldn't help but wonder what secrets they held, and what role I played in their mysterious plans. I knew they hoped that the controversy caused by the half-vampire child will finally destroy the Volturi. But now, as they knew of me being a vampire maxima who happened to share a resemblance to Didyme of the Volturi, they might see an even greater opportunity. My connection to Didyme, however tenuous, could be a powerful tool in their hands.

Then, Renesmee spoke to them. "Why do you keep staring at Violet?" Renesmee's voice, though young, carried a sharp edge of curiosity that cut through the tension in the room.

All eyes turned to the little girl, who stood defiantly before Vladimir and Stefan. Her boldness seemed to take everyone by surprise, myself included. The Romanians exchanged a quick, inscrutable glance before Vladimir responded.

"Your friend," Vladimir began slowly, his accent thick and deliberate, "is an enigma. A mystery that begs to be unraveled. Her resemblance to Didyme, combined with her own unique abilities, intrigues us."

Stefan nodded, his gaze never leaving mine. "We have seen many vampires in our time, but few who possess such potential. It is only natural for us to be curious."

Renesmee's eyes narrowed slightly as she absorbed their words. "So, you two just sat still and watch everything from a far?"

"We sat still for a very long time, child," Vladimir answered, with Stefan nodding along but not continuing Vladimir's sentences as he often did.

"Contemplating our own divinity. It was a sign of our power that everything came to us. Prey, diplomats, those seeking our favour. We sat on our thrones and thought ourselves gods. We didn't notice for a long time that we were changing- almost petrifying. I suppose the Volturi did us one favour when they burned our castles. Stefan and I, at least, did not continue to petrify. Now the Volturi's eyes are filmed with dusty scum, but ours are bright. I imagine that will give us an advantage when we gouge theirs from their sockets."

Bella quickly rose up and speedily made her way to Renesmee. She immediately picked her up and I could see the tension in Bella's stance as she cradled Renesmee protectively, her eyes narrowed at the Romanian vampires. Edward stepped closer, his jaw tight with barely restrained anger. The room felt charged, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next move.

"Your words are not helping," Edward said, his voice low and dangerous. "If you have questions for Violet, ask them directly. Stop playing these games."

Vladimir's lips curled into a cold smile. "Games? We only seek understanding, Edward. After all, knowledge is power, is it not?"

Stefan, always the silent shadow, nodded in agreement. "We mean no harm, not to the child, nor to Violet. Our interest is purely... academic."

As Bella walked away, cradling Renesmee, the tension in the room only seemed to grow. Edward's eyes tracked their every movement, his protective instincts on high alert.

"This isn't even about me," I spoke up. "They're coming here because they thought there's an immortal child here and everyone's been making it about me!"

The room fell silent as my words hung in the air. The tension was palpable, each vampire present acutely aware of the delicate balance we were trying to maintain.

Carlisle was the first to speak, his voice calm and measured. "Violet is right. We need to refocus on the primary concern that brought us all here-the Volturi's impending visit. Our priority is to protect Renesmee and ensure the Volturi understand the truth about her."

Esme nodded in agreement, her expression gentle yet firm. "We can't afford to let distractions divide us. We need to stand united and present a clear front when the Volturi arrive."

Vladimir and Stefan exchanged a glance, their expressions hardening. "We are aware of the primary concern," Vladimir said, his tone clipped. "But we must also consider the larger implications. The Volturi will not simply retreat if they feel threatened by Violet's presence. Her existence adds a new dimension to our strategy."

I felt a wave of frustration rising within me. "I'm not a pawn in your game against the Volturi," I said, my voice steady but firm. "And if you're planning some kind of revenge against them, do it when we're not here!"

The atmosphere in the room grew even more tense. I could feel the weight of everyone's eyes on me, a mixture of surprise and respect at my boldness.

"You better be careful about what you're going to say next," Stefan asked softly.

"Why? Because you're not gonna like what I'm about to say?" I retorted, my voice rising with the intensity of my emotions.

"That's enough," Gabriel called out and I heard him approaching us. His hand gripped onto my arm as he started to pull me away from them.

I saw smiles on their faces, seemingly enjoying the scene. The scene that they caused. They looked over to Gabriel with their stilled perfect smiles.

As Gabriel led me away from the tension-filled room, I felt a surge of relief mixed with frustration. It was clear that the Romanians enjoyed stirring the pot, and I had unwittingly played into their hands. I glanced back to see Carlisle trying to restore order, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the volatility that had gripped the room moments earlier.

Gabriel guided me to a quieter corner of the house, away from prying eyes and ears. His grip on my arm was firm but not painful, a silent reminder of his concern. Once we were alone, he released me and took a deep breath.

"Violet, you need to be careful," he said, his voice low and urgent. "They're both cunning, ambitious and very vengeful when it comes to the Volturi."

"You think I don't know that well enough?" I replied with a sarcastic tone.

Gabriel's expression softened slightly, but his concern remained evident. "I know you understand the risks, but sometimes they need to be handled with caution, not confrontation. The Romanians are dangerous, but we can't afford to alienate them right now. We need all the allies we can get against the Volturi."

I sighed, leaning against the wall. "I just don't want to be used as a pawn in anyone's game, Gabriel. I've had enough of that in my human life. Now, as a vampire, I want to take control of my own fate."

He nodded, his eyes earnest. "And you will. But sometimes, taking control means playing along, at least for a while. We need to be strategic. The Volturi are not invincible, but they're formidable. We can't underestimate them."

I looked up at him, searching for some reassurance. "Do you think we stand a chance?"

Gabriel's expression turned contemplative. "With the Cullens, the Denali, and the other covens standing together, we have a chance. But it will take more than just numbers. It will take resolve, unity, and a bit of luck."

I felt a wave of determination wash over me. "Then we need to make sure we have all of those things. I won't let the Volturi tear us apart."

Gabriel smiled, a rare expression on his usually stoic face. "That's the spirit. Now, let's go back and show them that we're stronger than they think."

As we walked back to the living room, I couldn't help but feel a renewed sense of purpose. The challenges ahead were daunting, but I was not alone. Surrounded by allies, friends, and even reluctant partners like the Romanians, we had a chance to change the course of vampire history.

Benjamin was training Ingram and I a few hours later. While he was manipulating the air, he was a bit of a show off and demonstrated his ability by creating a small whirlwind around us. The swirling air carried leaves and dust, creating an almost magical display. Despite my earlier frustrations, I couldn't help but be impressed by Benjamin's control over the elements.

Ingram, with the flick of his hand, summoned shadow tendrils from beneath the earth's ground. The tendrils wove through the air, mingling with Benjamin's whirlwind in an intricate dance of shadow and wind. It was mesmerizing, a testament to the power and skill each vampire possessed. I watched intently, my own abilities feeling small in comparison, yet I knew they held potential I had yet to fully explore.

Benjamin's voice cut through the whirlwind. "Focus, Violet. Your power is different, but it's no less important. Feel the energy around you. Draw it in and let it flow through you."

I closed my eyes, centering myself as Benjamin instructed. The cacophony of wind and shadow faded into the background as I reached deep within, seeking the core of my power. A warmth spread through me, a spark igniting into a flame. I opened my eyes and extended my hands, channeling the energy outward.

A wave of purple light burst forth, cutting through the shadows and dispersing the whirlwind. The brilliance illuminated the training ground, casting long shadows and reflecting off the watchful eyes of our companions. Benjamin and Ingram stepped back, giving me space to harness my power.

"Well done," Benjamin said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You have great potential, Violet. You just need to believe in yourself and trust your instincts."

Ingram nodded in agreement, his usually stern expression softened by a rare smile. "You're stronger than you realize. Keep pushing your limits."

Their encouragement bolstered my confidence. I felt a renewed determination to hone my abilities, to become a force to be reckoned with. The looming threat of the Volturi was a dark cloud on the horizon, but I was no longer afraid.

Tia, Benjamin's mate, with her midnight hair waving effortlessly, walked towards us after our training session came to an end. "Hello," she said warmly. "I couldn't help but notice the incredible display of power from all of you. It's truly inspiring to see such talent and determination in our midst."

I smiled gratefully at her words, feeling a sense of camaraderie and support. Tia looked over at Benjamin and told him that Amun wanted to speak to him. He obligated and headed back to the Cullens residence.

"Actually, I want to talk to you specifically," Tia said, turning to me. "There's something you need to know about Amun. It concerns Benjamin."

My curiosity piqued, I looked at Ingram and gave me an assuring nod and I followed Tia to a quieter corner of the training area. The shadows lengthened as dusk settled in, casting a serene, almost eerie glow over the surroundings. I could sense the weight of her words even before she spoke.

Tia glanced around to ensure we were alone, then fixed me with a serious gaze. "Amun has always been... protective of Benjamin. He discovered Benjamin's abilities early on and has since seen him as a key to power and influence. Amun is not a bad vampire, but his ambition can sometimes cloud his judgment. He would do anything to keep Benjamin under his control."

I nodded, absorbing her words. "And how does Benjamin feel about this?"

"Benjamin is loyal to Amun, but he's also growing weary of being used as a tool. He longs for freedom and the chance to make his own choices. That's why he's here, training with you and the others. He sees this as an opportunity to break away from Amun's shadow."

Her revelation added another layer to the already complex dynamics within our group. I understood Benjamin's struggle, the desire to carve out one's own path despite the expectations and manipulations of others.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked her.

"Because... I noticed that Amun and Gabriel are quite similar to each other."

Her words struck a chord within me. I had sensed Gabriel's protectiveness, but the idea of him being as controlling as Amun was troubling. Was I also just a tool in his eyes? The thought gnawed at me, casting a shadow over our bond.

"I appreciate your honesty, Tia," I said, my voice tinged with gratitude and apprehension. "I'll keep what you said in mind."

Tia smiled, a gesture filled with warmth and understanding. "I believe in your strength, Violet. Don't let anyone, not even Gabriel, dictate your destiny. You have the power to shape your own future.”

As she walked away, her words lingered in the air, intertwining with my own thoughts. The training with Benjamin and Ingram had rekindled my confidence, but Tia's revelation about Amun and Gabriel added a new layer of complexity to my journey. I needed to be cautious, to navigate the intricate web of alliances and ambitions that surrounded me.

Later that night, as the moon cast its silvery glow over the Cullen's residence, I found myself standing alone on the balcony. The cool breeze whispered through the trees, carrying with it the faint sounds of nocturnal creatures. It was a moment of solitude, a rare reprieve from the constant tension and uncertainty.

"Violet," a familiar voice called from behind. I turned to see Gabriel approaching, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "May I join you?"

I nodded, and he stepped beside me, leaning against the railing. For a moment, we stood in silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us.

"There's something I need to say," Gabriel finally broke the silence, his voice measured and deliberate. "I know you've heard things about me, about how I run our coven. I want you to understand that my intentions have always been to protect and guide, not to control."

I looked at him, searching his eyes for the truth. "But sometimes, Dad, it feels like you're trying to shape my path for me. Like you're afraid to let me make my own choices."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I won't deny that I've been overprotective. Leaving the Volturi, in a way, was a devastating blow, and I swore I would protect my family from them if they were to attack. But you're right, Violet. You deserve the freedom to make your own decisions, to forge your own destiny."

His words, tinged with vulnerability and sincerity, resonated deeply within me. It was a step towards understanding, a bridge between our fears and our hopes.

"I appreciate your honesty, Dad," I said softly. "But I need to know that you trust me, that you believe in my ability to stand on my own."

He nodded, his expression filled with a mix of pride and regret. "I do trust you, Violet. More than you know. And I promise to respect your choices, to support you without overshadowing you."

In that moment, I felt a sense of relief, a glimmer of hope that we could navigate this tumultuous journey together without losing ourselves in the process.

As the night deepened, we stood side by side, the silence now filled with a shared understanding. The challenges ahead were daunting, but with honesty and trust, we could face them together. The revelation about Didyme, the tensions within covens and nomads, the impending confrontation with the Volturi-each obstacle was a test of our resolve, a chance to redefine our destinies.