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Sivares searched the land below for any sign of help. A village would do. A town would be better. At this point, she would have settled for an old house with a witch stirring a cauldron inside, so long as the witch knew how to keep a human from freezing to death.

Lidea and Skyla were still out there. Skyla could shelter the girl from the wind, but she couldn’t make the cold go away. Humans did poorly in weather like this, and Sivares had already left them alone too long.

Gentle snow drifted past her wings. It wasn’t even the month of Arrvies yet. Farmers should still have been bringing in the last of the harvest, but the fields below had vanished beneath a thin blanket of white. Sivares scanned each cluster of trees and every rise in the land, hoping to spot smoke from a chimney.

Then she saw a blotch of red in the endless white.

At first she thought it was exposed earth. She banked for a better look, and the shape moved.

A dragon.

Sivares narrowed her eyes. The distance was too great for a human to make out more than a speck, but she knew that shade of red. She knew the breadth of those shoulders and the shape of those horns.

Kaevric.

For one stunned heartbeat, she forgot the cold, the falling snow, and the human girl waiting for her return. Her brother was here. Whether he had followed her or found her by chance, she didn’t know.

Then she folded her wings and dove.

The wind roared past Sivares as she plunged toward the red shape below. Kaevric had come to finish their fight. He had come to drag her before his Black King, and this time she would answer him with fire.

Because of him, Damon had been hurt.

She heard Damon’s scream again, as clearly as she had when her flames struck him. She hadn’t known a human could make a sound like that. Days later, it still followed her whenever she closed her eyes.

Sivares bared her teeth at the dragon growing larger beneath her. She didn’t know whether ending Kaevric would make the sound go away. She only knew she wanted him to hear it too.

The wind roared past Sivares as she plunged toward the red shape below. Kaevric had come to finish their fight. He had come to drag her before his Black King, and this time she would answer him with fire.

Because of him, Damon had been hurt.

She heard Damon’s scream again, as clearly as she had when her flames struck him. She hadn’t known a human could make a sound like that. Days later, it still followed her whenever she closed her eyes.

Sivares bared her teeth at the dragon growing larger beneath her. She didn’t know whether ending Kaevric would make the sound go away. She only knew she wanted him to hear it too.

I’ll give the scene more room as we go—especially Sivares’s approach, what she can see from the air, and the moment Damon’s voice breaks through her anger. Here’s that landing with a little more detail:

Sivares spread her wings at the last moment, but she had come down too fast for a graceful landing. Her claws struck the frozen ground, and a wall of snow rolled outward from the impact. Birds that had lingered past their season burst from the nearby trees, their startled cries carrying over the field as they scattered into the gray sky.

For a moment, Sivares could see nothing through the snow she had thrown into the air. She held her ground, wings raised and teeth bared, waiting for the red shape ahead of her to move.

The snow settled.

Kaevric stood before her.

Seeing him this close brought Damon’s scream rushing back. Sivares dug her claws deeper into the earth beneath the snow and felt heat gather in her throat.

“Kaevric,” she snarled.

Her brother’s eyes widened. He shifted as if to back away, then stopped abruptly. Sivares barely noticed. She was watching his jaws, waiting for him to say one word about the Black King.

“Oh, hey, Sivares!”

She knew that voice.

Sivares turned so sharply that snow slid from her horns. Damon was standing beside her brother, bundled against the cold and waving with his good arm. His other arm rested against his chest, wrapped in bandages.

For days she had heard him screaming. Now he was looking up at her as though they had happened upon each other in the street.

The heat in her throat vanished. Her wings lowered. She stared at his face, then at the bandages, then back at his face, trying to understand how he could be here beside Kaevric of all dragons.

“Damon? What are you doing here?!”

“Oh, not just me,” Damon said. He gestured around with his good arm. “Emily and Keys are here too. And some of the mage mice.”

“Some?” Kaevric muttered.

Sivares blinked. She had been so focused on her brother, and then on Damon, that she hadn’t noticed the little figures scattered across Kaevric’s back. A few mice peered out from between his scales. Others clung to the spines along his neck.

Keys sat atop one of his horns like a queen on a red throne, arms crossed, utterly unmoved by Sivares’s landing.

“Do you know how worried I was?” Keys demanded.

Sivares opened her mouth, but Emily emerged from behind a fallen log before she could answer. Snow covered the shoulders of her coat. She brushed it off and gave Sivares a shaky wave.

“Hey, Sivares. We were looking for you.” Emily glanced at the gouges Sivares’s claws had left in the frozen ground. “I’m glad you saw us before you landed any closer.”

Keys looked down at Damon. “I still can’t believe we found her by pure luck.”

Damon looked from Keys to the red dragon standing in the middle of a white field. “I mean, he was pretty easy to spot.”

“Yes,” Kaevric said flatly. “I gathered that.”

Sivares heard them, but their voices seemed distant. Damon was right there, close enough for her to see the snow caught in his hair and the fresh bandages on his arm. He had come looking for her.

And somehow, he had brought Kaevric with him.

The relief of seeing them lasted only a moment. Then Sivares looked at Damon’s arm.

It rested in a sling against his chest, wrapped from elbow to wrist. She could not see the burn beneath the bandages, but she remembered exactly where her flames had struck. She remembered his scream. The sound came back so sharply that the snowy field seemed to fall away beneath her.

She had hurt him. Damon had come all this way to find her, and she had hurt him.

Sivares tried to draw a breath. Her chest tightened instead. She took a step back, claws slipping in the snow.

“Sivares?” Damon called.

She shook her head. She couldn’t look at the bandages again. She couldn’t look at him without seeing the instant he’d been caught in her fire. Her wings opened halfway, ready to carry her away before she could hurt him again.

“I’m sorry,” Damon said.

Sivares stopped. For a moment, she wondered if she had heard him wrong.

Damon stood where he was, his good hand hanging at his side. He was the one with his arm in a sling. She was the one who had burned him.

And somehow, he was apologizing to her.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Damon said.

Sivares stared at him. She had been bracing herself for anger, or for the sight of him shrinking away from her. An apology was so far from anything she had imagined that she could only ask, “What?”

“When I got burned,” he said. His eyes flicked toward the arm held against his chest. “I saw your face before you flew off. I knew it was bad, but I didn’t realize you’d be out here for days thinking about it.”

“You screamed, Damon.” The words scraped their way out of her throat. “I heard you scream because of what I did.”

“I know. It hurt.” He didn’t try to smile or pretend otherwise, and that made it harder to look away from him. “I’m sorry you had to hear me like that.”

Sivares drew back. “You do not get to apologize for that. I breathed the fire. I burned you.”

Damon nodded, accepting it without argument. For a moment he looked down at the snow between them, then back up at her. “I know you did. I’m not saying it was nothing. I just wish I’d managed to tell you I was going to be okay before you left.”

Her gaze fell to his sling again. He had come through the cold with Kaevric at his side to find her, while she had spent every hour since the fight hearing that scream. Sivares wanted to go to him. The thought of touching him with the same body that had burned him held her where she stood.

Damon started toward her. He didn’t hurry, but he didn’t hesitate either. Each step brought him closer to her claws, her teeth, the mouth that had breathed fire over him, and his pace never changed.

Sivares took a step back. Damon kept coming, looking at her as though she were an old friend who had just returned from a trip. She retreated again, unable to understand how he could come so close with his injured arm still held against his chest. Her rump struck a tree. Snow shook loose from its branches and scattered across her back, and she realized she had nowhere else to go.

Damon stopped in front of her. Up close, she could see where the bandages disappeared beneath the strap of his sling. She held herself perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might brush against him.

Sivares’s thoughts tangled together. Damon should not trust her enough to stand so close. He had seen what happened when she lost control. She had burned him, and still he stood beneath her jaws without a hint of fear. She was a monster. Why couldn’t he see it?

A clump of snow dropped from the tree at her back and landed squarely on her face.

Sivares blinked through the white dusting her snout. Across the clearing, Keys burst out laughing. She was still perched on Kaevric’s horn, one hand braced against it as she leaned forward.

“Wow. The big, scary dragon is afraid of little old Damon.” Keys grinned. “Come on, Sivares. You know he wouldn’t write you off over a burn.”

Sivares’s head snapped toward her. Kaevric stood beneath Keys, watching them both. She had been so caught up in Damon’s approach that she had completely forgotten her brother was still there.

Keys’s words struck harder than the snow still clinging to Sivares’s snout, but the sight of her brother raised a question she could no longer ignore. She looked from Keys on his horn to the mice scattered across his back, then to Damon and Emily.

“Why is Kaevric with all of you? What is going on?”

Kaevric turned his head away with a click of his tongue. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as though I wanted to be here.” His eyes flicked toward the mice. “They dragon-napped me.”

Sivares blinked. “They what?”

“Dragon-napped me,” Kaevric repeated, as if saying it more slowly would help. “The mice paralyzed me, and then these two dragged me halfway across the countryside to find you.”

Keys crossed her arms atop his horn. “You make it sound so rude.”

“It was rude.”

Sivares looked down at Damon. He gave her a small, unapologetic shrug. For the first time since she had seen Kaevric against the snow, she understood that her brother had not come to take her to the Black King.

Damon had brought him.

Emily came out from behind the fallen log and approached them, brushing snow from her coat. “Well, to be fair, after the mage mice jumped him, we didn’t exactly know what to do with him.” She glanced at Kaevric, who was watching her with open irritation. “So we’re kind of just winging it.”

“You could let me go,” Kaevric suggested. “That did come up,” Emily said. “But then what would be stopping you from hurting people?” Kaevric just looked like someone who had just been told he had to work on a day off.

Sivares could only stare. A moment ago, she had been certain Kaevric had come to drag her before the Black King. Instead, he was standing in the snow with Keys perched on his horn, arguing with Emily while Damon waited at her side. Somehow, they had found her together, and none of them seemed to have the slightest idea what they were going to do with her brother now that they had.

Damon waited for Sivares’s laughter to fade. Every time she glanced at Keys perched on Kaevric’s horn, another little burst escaped her, until at last she lowered her head and caught her breath. Damon stood nearby with his injured arm in its sling. He had given her room to laugh, but he had not stepped away.

“So,” he said, “are you coming home?”

Sivares looked at him. She wanted to say yes. The word was there, caught behind everything she still felt when she saw his bandages.

“You’re my partner,” Damon said. “Scale & Mail doesn’t work very well with only half of us. And I missed you.”

Emily came closer, stopping beside him. “You saved me, Sivares. You also kind of kidnapped me when we first met,” she added, with a small smile. “It’s been a strange friendship, but I’d like you to come back too.”

“I did not kidnap you,” Sivares said.

Emily raised her eyebrows. “We can argue about that on the way home.”

Keys stood on Kaevric’s horn, planted her paws on her hips, and pointed at Sivares. “And if you don’t come, I’ll spend the rest of my days tracking you down and dragging you home myself.”

Sivares stared at the six-inch mouse. Kaevric turned one eye upward toward the tiny creature making threats from his head, then wisely kept quiet.

“I’ll do it,” Keys said.

“I believe you,” Sivares replied. She could feel a smile returning, and this time she made no effort to hide it. For one brief moment, home seemed close enough to reach.

Then she remembered Skyla and the girl waiting in the snow.

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Damon was sitting very, very still.

It was harder than it sounded.

His arm was pure agony right now, not the sharp, screaming pain from the first day, but a deep, miserable, crawling hurt that made him want to move it, scratch it, shake it, do anything except leave it alone. The sling kept it bound tight against him, and Keys had already warned him twice not to start fidgeting with it again.

One of the mage mouse healers sat on the crook of his elbow, tiny paws moving with careful precision as thin strands of magic waved from their hands and passed over the burned skin. The spell felt strange—cool in one place, warm in another, like threads of energy being woven through the pain itself. Most of the burn, the healer had said, was first degree. That was supposed to be good news.

“If it were not hurting,” the healer had muttered while working, “that would be much worse.”

Damon understood the words well enough, but they did not make the pain any more polite.

He ended up sitting on his free hand just to keep himself from reaching over and scratching at the bandaged arm. Every few seconds the urge came back anyway, crawling under the wrappings like ants under his skin, and every time he had to grit his teeth and stay still.

This, Damon decided, was a truly unfair way to heal.

The healer must have seen the question on Damon’s face, because without looking up from their work, they began to explain.

“This is not the kind of healing that fixes an injury all at once,” they said, their voice calm and matter-of-fact. “If you wanted that, you should have been born an elf, richer than a duke, or much luckier than you are.”

Damon let out the faintest huff through his nose.

The healer continued, thin lines of magic still moving over the burn. “What I am doing is quieter. It cuts away weakness, eases some of the swelling, and encourages the body to do what it already knows how to do. It tells the skin to grow back faster than it would on its own. Better. Cleaner.” They glanced up at him then, whiskers twitching once. “But it is still your body doing the work. Not mine.”

“So,” Damon said carefully, “not instant.”

“Very much not instant.”

The healer shifted to another patch of damaged skin, and Damon sucked in a breath through his teeth as the spell changed from cool to stinging warmth. “If I pushed harder,” the little mage mouse went on, “I might close the surface too fast and trap the more serious damage beneath it. That would be foolish. It would heal wrong.”

That sounded unpleasant enough that Damon decided not to argue.

The healer gave a small shrug. “This way is slower. More annoying. Considerably itchier. But better.”

Damon looked down at the bandaged arm in its sling. “Will it scar?”

“Yes,” the healer said at once.

There was no softness in the answer, but no cruelty either. Just honesty.

“Yes,” they repeated, gentler this time. “There will be scars. The skin was burned too badly for there not to be. We can help the healing. We cannot make the fire forget it was ever there.”

Damon sat quietly with that.

The healer’s magic moved again, easing over one last angry patch of flesh. “The good news,” they added, “is that you will keep the arm. You will use it again. And if you are sensible for once in your life and let it heal properly, the scars will be the worst of it.”

Damon looked at them. “That sounded strangely personal.”

The healer sniffed. “Keys has been talking.”

The healer glanced up at him. “This isn’t instant healing,” they said. “All I’m doing is easing the swelling, cutting back the damage, and helping your body grow the skin back faster than it would on its own. It still has to heal naturally.”

Damon looked down at the bandages. “So there’ll be scars.”

“Yes,” the healer said plainly. “There will be scars.”

Their paws moved again, threads of magic passing over the burn. “And this wasn’t an ordinary fire burn. Dragonfire burns much hotter than wood flame. Hot enough to melt stone if it sits long enough. You were lucky it was put out as fast as it was. If it had burned any longer, you might have lost the arm.”

Damon went still at that.

The healer nodded toward the sling. “So hold still, don’t scratch, and let it heal properly.”

Keys sat on Damon’s shoulder, one ear now wrapped in a tiny bandage.

They were outside near Mellow’s nook, with Damon standing off to one side of the little path so he would not block half the town just by existing. Snow lay packed around the roots and walkways, and the warm glow from the smaller mouse-sized homes made the place feel almost cozy if you ignored the fact that Damon was too large to properly fit anywhere in it.

Damon glanced up at Keys. “So how’s Vinik doing?”

Keys let out a sigh. “Not well.”

Her eyes drifted toward Mellow’s doorway. “I’m trying to understand it from his side. One moment he was home, part of the long-dead Kingdom of Rustle. The next, a mage captured him, sealed him away, and when he finally came out again, seven hundred years had passed. His home was dust. Everyone he knew was long gone. And now, to him, his greatest enemy is allowed to stand in town and let a healer fix his arm.”

Damon looked down at the snowy ground in silence.

He remembered when Keys had first hidden herself in his mailbag, desperate to escape a home that had never really let her leave. She had ridden with him and Sivares just to get the chance to see the world. But that had been years after humans and the mage mice of Adavyea had at least reached a wary sort of understanding. Not trust, exactly, but enough not to strike on sight. And even then, only a few months ago, some humans had still tried to capture mage mice and sell them.

So what had it been like for Vinik seven hundred years ago?

Damon lifted his eyes toward Mellow.

The elder mouse stood in the doorway of his nook, watching them with that same tired, unreadable expression. Not hatred, exactly. But not comfort either. For one uneasy moment Damon had the strange feeling that, in Vinik’s eyes, he was still just a human standing in town, waiting for the chance to scoop up every mage mouse within reach, shove them into a bag, and carry them somewhere they would never be seen again.

The thought sat heavy in his chest.

“I don’t blame him,” Damon said at last.

Keys’ whiskers twitched. “No,” she said softly. “Neither do I.

The crunch of snow pulled Damon out of his thoughts.

He looked up just as Emily came around the curve of the path from Sivares’s lair, bundled against the cold and moving carefully over the packed snow. With his good hand, Damon lifted it to wave.

Keys squeaked in shock and flattened herself against the side of his head. “Watch it! I’m sitting here!”

“Oh—sorry, Keys.”

Emily had already seen the state of him by then. Her eyes dropped to the sling, then widened. “Damon—what happened to your arm?”

As Emily came closer, she saw more than just the sling.

The mage mouse healer was still perched on Damon’s arm, working carefully over the burn with threads of magic, and every now and then Damon would wince despite clearly trying not to. One look at that was enough to push curiosity into something sharper.

Damon saw the question forming on her face.

“Well,” he said, “long story short, Sivares’s long-lost brother showed up, they got into a fight, and I got caught in the crossfire.” Then, in the same tone someone might have used to comment on the weather, he added, “Oh, and my mom wants you over for dinner tonight.”

Emily just stared at him.

“Damon,” she said, almost in disbelief, “you were burned. Shouldn’t you be panicking? And where’s Sivares? Shouldn’t she be here with you?”

Damon let out a sigh. “She blames herself for the burn. It was her fire breath that did it.” His expression softened a little. “I don’t blame her. I’m not angry. It just happened.”

Emily’s face tightened at that. “Can I look at it?”

Damon shifted his good arm a little in invitation. “Sure.”

Emily crouched a little closer, careful not to get in the healer’s way. She had read about dragonfire, of course, but reading about something in books and seeing the aftermath on someone she knew were very different things. Most of what she understood came from study, guesswork, and the few weeks she had spent traveling beside an actual dragon.

That was still enough to make her uneasy.

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At first, while the others went to their rooms, Luna took to the bar. She shifted on the heavy stool, the wood groaning under her weight. The barkeep, a burly dwarf with a braided beard, slid a wooden mug toward her. She pushed a few copper coins across the counter. They’d actually given her money. Her money. Willingly given, not stolen, not found. Wasn't she still a slave? But during the ride, they never treated her like one. Well, not like the human really needed to pull out a whip when he could just will her body to obey him, but still.

She ordered an ale. As the tavern wench passed her the warm drink, Luna grinned and downed it in one go. Ah, still the same horse piss you could find anywhere. But now... somehow it tasted different. Well, still bad, but not as bad.

Freedom was a strange concept. She remembered the chains, the cage, the sting of the silver-tipped whip. She remembered the man who owned her before, the one who’d laugh as he made her fight other beasts for sport. This was different. The strings were there, a constant, subtle hum in the back of her mind, but they weren't painful. They were just... there. Like knowing you have a backbone. You don't feel it, but you know it holds you up.

The human, Ryan, didn't treat her like a beast to be beaten. He treated her like a tool to be used. A very sharp, very dangerous tool that he seemed to understand needed to be kept clean and sharp. He didn't fear her. He respected her power, and in her world, that was a form of kindness. More kindness than she’d ever known.

She was nursing her second mug, enjoying the warmth spreading through her chest, when the smell hit her. It was oily, greasy, and carried the stench of old blood and arrogance. A group of beastfolk, a mix of boar and wolf types, swaggered into the inn. They were loud, shoving patrons out of their way, their eyes scanning the room with a predatory gleam. Mercenaries. The worst kind.

Luna flattened her ears against her skull and tried to make herself small, a nearly impossible task for a seven-foot-tall wolf-woman. She just wanted to drink her lukewarm ale in peace. But of course, the world was never that simple.

The leader of the pack, a massive boar-man with a scarred snout and rusty chainmail, slammed his meaty fist down on the bar right next to her. The impact rattled her mug.

"Well, well," the boar grunted, his voice like grinding stones. "Look what we have here. A big doggy slumming it with the sheep." He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on the reinforced leather tunic Juno had bought her. "Nice clothes for a mutt. Did you steal them, or did your master give them to you after you rolled over for him?"

Luna didn't answer. She just stared into her mug, her knuckles white as she gripped the handle. She could feel the strings hum, a faint questioning pulse from Ryan, but he was upstairs. He couldn't see this. She was on her own.

The boar-man laughed, a wet, guttural sound. "What's the matter, dog? Cat got your tongue?" He shoved her, hard.

Luna didn't budge. She was built like a mountain. But his shove sent her stool skidding, and she had to plant a foot on the floor to steady herself. Her ale sloshed, spilling onto the floor.

That's when the crash came. It wasn't her. It was the boar-man, flying backward and smashing through a nearby table. It happened so fast that no one saw who did it. But Luna knew. She’d felt the faintest, ghost-like tug of the strings, a pre-emptive command to protect the asset.

The boar-man scrambled up, his face purple with rage. "Who did that?!" he roared, his eyes locking onto Luna. "You!"

He drew a rusty, notched short sword and charged.

Luna didn't want to fight. She just wanted to finish her drink. But as the boar-man lunged, she felt the strings tighten again. This time, it was a clear, undeniable command. Engage.

With a sigh that was half annoyance, half resignation, Luna sidestepped the clumsy lunge. Her hand shot out, not with claws, but just an open palm. She slapped the sword out of his hand, sending it clattering across the floor. Then, with the same motion, she grabbed him by the front of his armor and lifted him off his feet.

She held him there, his legs kicking a foot uselessly off the ground, his face a mask of shock and terror. She leaned in close, her voice a low growl that only he could hear.

"I am trying to have a drink," she said, her breath hot against his snout. "Go away."

She threw him. He flew across the common room and crashed into his pack, sending them all tumbling to the floor in a heap of limbs and indignation.

The entire inn was silent. Everyone was staring at her. Luna just sighed, picked up her stool, and sat back down. She picked up her mug, took a long swallow, and wished, not for the first time, that she could just get drunk in peace.

The entire inn was silent. Everyone was staring at her. Luna just sighed, picked up her stool, and sat back down. She picked up her mug, took a long swallow, and wished, not for the first time, that she could just get drunk in peace.

But peace was a luxury she couldn't afford.

One of the boar's wolves, his face twisted in fury, drew his sword. With a guttural roar, he charged, aiming to run her through. The blade sank deep into her gut.

A sharp, searing pain lanced through her, and a red flash pulsed in her vision. Her HP took a heavy hit.

[LUNA]
HP: 428/460

Luna grunted, looking down at the hilt protruding from her stomach. The steel was high quality, its edge gleaming even in the dim tavern light. Dungeon drop, she thought absently. Something a dungeon gives to the adventurers who delve into it. But unfortunately for the wolf in front of her, it wasn't silver.

To the wolf's surprise, even with a blade in her gut, Luna didn't fall. She didn't even scream. She slowly, deliberately, reached out, grabbed the merc by the face, and slammed him into the floor. The wood splintered from the impact.

Calm, she thought, her breath hitching. I need to stay calm. Don't lose control, or everyone in the room will die. She could feel the familiar, red haze tugging at the edges of her vision, the primal rage of her Blood Frenzy begging to be unleashed.

With a wet, tearing sound, she pulled the blade out of her gut. To the recoiling boar's surprise, the hole was visibly closing right in front of them as her regeneration kicked in, flesh and muscle knitting together with unnatural speed.

"Heal her!" the boar-man screamed, his voice a mixture of terror and disbelief. "Kill her! Kill her now!"

The other mercs, their shock turning to panicked resolve, pulled out their weapons. The air grew thick with the scent of fear and the promise of more blood. Luna stood her ground, the sword in her hand dripping with her own blood, and prepared for the real fight to begin.

The other mercs, their shock turning to panicked resolve, pulled out their weapons. The air grew thick with the scent of fear and the promise of more blood. Luna stood her ground, the sword in her hand dripping with her own blood, and prepared for the real fight to begin.

The first wolf-man lunged, his rusty scimitar swinging in a wild arc. Luna sidestepped, the move fluid and economical. She wasn't a dancer like Juno; she was a brawler. She let the blade slice through the air where she'd been, then countered with a vicious backhand that sent the mercenary sprawling, his jaw shattered.

Two more came at her from opposite sides. She ducked under a sweeping axe, the wind of its passage ruffling her fur, and drove the stolen sword she was holding into the thigh of the other. He screamed and crumpled. But as she moved to finish him, the first one she'd hit was back up, his eyes crazed with pain.

Calm, she reminded herself, her jaw tight. Don't let it take over.

The red haze was a physical pressure now, a roaring in her ears. The world began to narrow, the panicked faces of the patrons blurring into irrelevant background noise. The scent of spilled ale was gone, replaced by the overwhelming, intoxicating smell of blood, her own and theirs. Her instincts screamed at her to let go, to become the storm of claws and fury that could end this in seconds. But she knew what that meant. The Blood Frenzy didn't care about targets. It didn't care about innocent bystanders. It only cared about the kill. She'd tear through these mercenaries, and then she'd turn on the screaming patrons, the dwarf behind the bar, anyone with a pulse.

She forced the rage down, focusing on the cold, hard logic of the fight. She was a weapon, and Ryan was the wielder. He wouldn't want a massacre. He'd want a clean, efficient solution.

A boar-man charged, his head lowered like a battering ram. Luna met him head-on, dropping her shoulder and taking the impact. The air was forced from her lungs, but she held her ground, wrapping her arms around his torso. With a grunt of effort, she lifted him and used him as a living shield. A thrown dagger from one of his companions thunked into the boar's back. He roared in pain and surprise.

Luna didn't waste the opening. She threw him aside, his body crashing into another merc, and spun to face the dagger-thrower. He was already fumbling for another weapon. She closed the distance in three long strides, her hand shooting out to wrap around his throat. She lifted him, his feet kicking, her grip like iron.

"Stop," she growled, her voice low and guttural, a sound that was more animal than woman. It wasn't a command fueled by rage, but a cold, hard warning.

The remaining mercenaries froze. They looked at their comrades groaning on the floor, at the terrifyingly calm wolf-woman holding their leader aloft, and at the hole in her stomach that was now just an angry red scar. This wasn't a brawl. This was a slaughter.

The boar-man she'd thrown earlier, the one who had started it all, scrambled to his feet, his face pale. He held up his hands, his rusty sword forgotten on the floor. "We yield! We yield!"

Luna stared at him, her amber eyes burning. The strings in her mind were quiet, waiting. She could feel the faint, questioning presence of Ryan, watching through her eyes. He was letting her handle this.

Slowly, deliberately, she lowered the dagger-thrower to the ground, but didn't release her grip on his throat. She leaned in close, her voice a menacing whisper.

"Get out," she said to the boar-man. "Take your dogs. And if I ever see you again, I'll eat you."

The boar-man didn't need to be told twice. He and his remaining pack scrambled to their feet, grabbing their injured and fleeing the inn as if the hounds of hell were at their heels. A moment later, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the groans of the wounded merc she'd left behind.

Luna let go of the man in her grasp. He collapsed, gasping for air, and crawled away after his friends.

She stood in the center of the ruined common room, her chest heaving, not from exertion, but from the effort of holding the beast at bay. The red haze receded, leaving her feeling hollowed out and exhausted. She looked at the chaos around her, at the splintered tables and spilled ale, and let out a long, weary sigh.

She just wanted a drink. She walked back to the bar, picked up her stool, and sat down. The dwarf barkeep stared at her, his eyes wide, but he didn't say a word. He just slid another full mug of ale across the counter.

Luna picked it up and downed it in one go. It still tasted like horse piss. But now, it tasted like victory. And that made all the difference.

That's when Ryan, still damp and hastily dressed, and Juno came running down the stairs. She knew what was going to be next. The fear. The accusation. She was close to fully losing it. But they will now see the monster.

"Luna, are you okay?"

The question hit her like a physical blow, harder than the sword had. Are... are they actually concerned for her?

She stared at them, her mind reeling. She expected anger, demands for an explanation, a sharp command to heel. She expected to be treated like the weapon that had just gone off and made a mess. But there was none of that. Ryan's face wasn't angry; it was... assessing. He looked from her to the carnage, his eyes calculating, not condemning. And Juno... the knight's expression was one of genuine concern, his gaze fixed on the angry red scar on her stomach. A flicker of something, respect, maybe? crossed his face at the brutal efficiency of her control.

The sheer, unexpected shock of it was more effective at tamping down the rage than any amount of internal willpower. The red haze that had been threatening to consume her receded completely, leaving behind a profound sense of bewilderment.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice rough. She gestured with her thumb at the mercenary groaning on the floor. "He's not."

Ryan walked over to the injured man, nudging him with his boot. The merc flinched, curling into a ball. Ryan looked back at Luna, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. It wasn't a smile of kindness. It was a craftsman admiring his work.

"Good," Ryan said, his voice calm and steady. "Because we're leaving. Now."

He turned to Juno. "Get our things. Pay the innkeeper for the damages." Then he looked back at Luna. "You. Come with me."

The strings didn't tug. There was no compulsion. It was just an order, given by a commander to his most effective soldier. And for the first time, Luna found she didn't mind taking it. She downed the rest of her ale, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and followed him out of the ruined inn, leaving the chaos behind.

As they reached the shadowed rear of the inn, Ryan stopped and turned to her. The moonlight carved his features into sharp, serious lines. He looked her up and down, not with the detached assessment of a craftsman, but with the intense focus of an owner.

"You are a monster," he said, his voice flat, devoid of judgment. It was a statement of fact, like saying the sky was blue. "But you are my monster."

He took a step closer, his gaze boring into hers. "And don't worry about losing control. Because I am the one holding your leash." A faint, chilling smile touched his lips. "If you had lost control, I would have yanked you back."

The words sent a shiver down Luna's spine that had nothing to do with the cold night air. It wasn't a threat. It was a promise. A guarantee. The fear of the frenzy, the terror of becoming a mindless killer, had been her constant companion for years. And here was this human, this weak, fragile human, telling her he could tame the beast within her.

She believed him.

For the first time since she could remember, the constant, low-level thrum of anxiety in her soul quieted. The leash wasn't a restriction. It was an anchor. It was the one thing keeping her from being swept away by the storm inside her own head.

She looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw not a master, but a warden. And she was his most dangerous, most prized prisoner. And in this world, that was the safest place to be.

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