His eyes lock onto mine, wide with pain and panic. Blood bubbles faintly at the wound when he tries again to form words, and his breathing rattles wetly.
“Do not,” I order, keeping my tone absolute. “Save your air.”
I do not wait for anyone else to decide. There is no time for debate, and no space for hesitation.
I shift.
The change is fast and violent, bones snapping into alignment as my wolf surges forward. Gasps ripple around the clearing, but nobody steps close enough to interfere. When the transformation settles, I lower my head and brace carefully, supporting the injured wolf’s weight without crushing him.
Ciaran is already moving ahead, voice sharp and clear.
“Healer’s lodge,” he says.
I run.
The forest blurs into streaks of green and shadow as my paws cut the quickest line between trees. Pine needles scatter beneath me, and cold air tears through my lungs. The wolf in my hold is still breathing, but each inhale is thin and wet, and I can feel his body trembling with the effort.
Not dead yet.
The healer’s lodge appears through the trees, smoke curling faintly from the chimney. I push through the doorway without slowing, claws clicking briefly on wood. The air inside smells of herbs, linen, and the faint bite of antiseptic mixed with old smoke.
“Ansel,” Ciaran calls from behind me.
The healer turns from his workbench at once.
Ansel is lean and steady, silver threaded through dark hair, his sleeves rolled up as if he was already expecting blood. His eyes are sharp and unsettlingly calm, taking in injury and urgency in a single sweep. He moves toward the table without wasting a word.
“On the table,” he says.
I shift and lift the injured wolf carefully onto the long wooden surface. Ansel’s hands are already working, pressing clean cloth against the wound, checking for arterial damage with quick, precise fingers. The injured wolf’s chest rises in a thin, rattling breath, and Ansel’s mouth tightens slightly at the sound.
“What happened,” Ansel asks.
“Ridge patrol,” Ciaran answers. “He made it back to the mansion. The rest of the patrol is still out there. He staggered in and collapsed.”
Ansel’s eyes narrow as he studies the wound edges. “He is lucky the artery holds,” he says, voice quiet but clipped.
Lucky is not what it feels like.
My wolf paces beneath my skin, furious and alert, every instinct insisting this was not random. This was a message meant to reach the heart of the pack. Whoever did it wanted me to see the damage and understand exactly how close they are willing to come.
And they came close enough to leave blood on my doorstep.
Ansel’s hands move with calm precision, but his eyes sharpen as soon as he peels back the shredded fabric.
The injured wolf lies rigid on the table, breath coming in thin, wet pulls. Blood has soaked through the cloth Ansel pressed against his throat, but the flow is slower now, controlled by pressure and careful bandaging. Ciaran stands at the foot of the table, jaw clenched, while I remain near the head, close enough to smell the iron and hear every ragged inhale.
“Hold him still,” Ansel says.
His voice is quiet, but it leaves no room for argument.
Ciaran steps in immediately and braces the young wolf’s shoulders. The injured wolf tries to lift a hand, then drops it again, trembling with exhaustion. Ansel cuts away the remaining fabric from his chest, and the movement reveals a pattern of dark, deliberate wounds carved into skin.
Not random slashes.
Symbols.
Ansel’s expression tightens. “These are not from brush.”