The words were a physical blow, worse than any frostbite. Neyza stared at him, unable to breathe, unable to reconcile the tender touch of moments ago with the frigid mask before her. His golden eyes, once alight with a desperate plea, were now flat, reflecting only the harsh, indifferent light of the high mountain. She felt her own soul shrivel, a pain far deeper than the slow burn of the mating sickness. Without another word, she turned and walked away, the biting wind whipping her hair, her vision blurring with unshed tears that instantly froze on her cheeks.
The descent from Oskara’s upper rings ground gravel beneath her soles. The lower ring smelled of woodsmoke, wet mule hair, and boiled cabbage. Her infirmary, a sagging outpost of timber and fieldstone, stood crooked in the alley shadow.
Chulpan met her at the door, his one good eye narrowed, his tail flicking with an intensity that spoke volumes. He nudged her leg, then let out a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the worn floorboards. He knew. He always knew.
“I’m fine, Chulpan,” she mumbled. She brushed past him, her boots dragging heavily across the floor. The workspace remained as she had left it: neat rows of rolled muslin, amber vials, and patient ledgers. She sank onto a stool, staring past a jar of dried winter-rue. The burning behind her ribs flared, grinding bone-deep. She coughed into her knuckle, tasting copper.
She tried to busy herself, picking up a dull scalpel, then setting it down. Re-shelving bottles that were already in their places. Her mind kept replaying Bozan’s face, his eyes, the cold, finality of his words. *You mean nothing to me.* It was a blade in her gut, twisting and turning with every slow beat of her heart.
Chulpan, however, was having none of her self-pity. He stalked over, a lumpish object clutched in his jaws. He dropped it with a thud at her feet, then sat back on his haunches, staring at her with an unblinking, expectant gaze. It was a stone, roughly spherical, about the size of her fist, and it pulsed with a faint, silvery luminescence, like captured moonlight. She picked it up, curiosity momentarily overriding her despair. It felt cool to the touch, and strangely, as she held it, the burning in her chest seemed to recede, a dulling of the sharp edges.
“Chulpan, where did you get this?” she murmured, tracing a finger over its smooth surface. The lynx only blinked, then let out a soft ‘*mrrp*’ of pure satisfaction. He must have snuck back into the Tarnok Encampment, into Dabrak’s study, after she’d been banished. The sheer audacity of it, a three-legged lynx infiltrating the Alpha’s father’s personal chambers, was almost enough to make her smile.
She took the moon-stone to her small, scarred work table, carefully positioning it beneath the lens of her microscope. Under magnification, the stone revealed intricate, shimmering veins that glowed with a soft, internal light. She took a drop of her own silver-laced blood, placed it on a slide, and then carefully held the moon-stone near it. Fascinated, she watched as the silver flecks in her blood seemed to recede, dissolving slightly, their sharp, crystalline edges softening. It was temporary, she realized, but it was *something*. A small, fragile shield against the encroaching fire within her. A way to buy time.
Timber cracked across the front threshold, shattering the silence. The front door exploded inward, shattered wood and iron flying across the room. Three hulking figures, clad in dark, unadorned leather and carrying heavy bludgeons, surged through the gaping doorway. Their faces were obscured by deep hoods, but the glint of malice in their eyes was unmistakable.
“Dabrak sends his regards, Varteni,” one of them rasped, his voice gravelly and devoid of emotion. “Says the mountain air does not agree with human souls.”
They fanned out across the floorboards. Neyza’s fingers clamped around the moon-stone. As the lead intruder lunged, grey fur streaked past the counter with an open-throated snarl.
Chulpan, his three legs moving with impossible speed, became a whirlwind of teeth and claws. He didn’t just scratch; he tore. His remaining front leg, thick with muscle, delivered blows with surprising force, his hind legs driving him forward into the fray. He latched onto the arm of the foremost trespasser, his fangs sinking deep into dark hide. The man stumbled back, trying to shake the furious animal loose, but Chulpan clung on, a snarling, spitting demon, drawing dark blood.
“Get the damned beast off!” another man roared, swinging his club. Chulpan, surprisingly agile despite his injury, dodged the clumsy swing, then used the man’s momentum to spring onto his back, raking his claws down his spine. The air filled with curses and the sharp scent of ozone.
Neyza, seizing the precious seconds Chulpan had bought her, sprang into action. The room had been built to hold wild, unpredictable mountain predators. In the back, she had a reinforced wolf-cage, a heavy contraption of thick iron bars meant for containing the most aggressive, injured beasts. It was bolted to the floor, large enough for two adult wolves, and currently empty.
“Here, you brutes!” she yelled, her voice shaking but firm. She grabbed a heavy, metal water bucket and hurled it, not at the men, but at a stack of ceramic pots, sending them crashing to the floor with a deafening clatter. It drew their attention, if only for a second. That was all she needed.
As Chulpan, bleeding but relentless, finally disengaged from the last assassin, Neyza darted towards the open cage. With a grunt, she unlatched the heavy, sliding door, pulling it wide. “Come and get me, you cowards!” she taunted, stepping inside the cage and bracing herself. The raiders charged forward, heedless of the open latch.
Chulpan, with one last, defiant hiss, squeezed past the onrushing men, limping back towards Neyza. He slipped into the cage just as the first assassin reached the entrance, his bludgeon raised high. Neyza slammed the heavy iron door shut, the clang echoing off the cedar rafters. The leader slammed against the bars, his cudgel clattering uselessly against the stone floor outside.
“You fools!” he bellowed, shaking the bars in vain. The other two, realizing their predicament, began to curse. They were trapped, caught like rabid dogs.
Neyza leaned against the cold iron, her ribs heaving while Chulpan huddled against her calves. The room was in ruins, pottery shards grinding beneath the intruders' boots.
Just as she thought she could finally collapse, a faint, rhythmic thumping sounded at the shattered front doorway. A figure stumbled through the doorway, leaning heavily against the splintered frame. It was a wolf, in human form, his face pale and streaked with blood, one arm hanging uselessly. His fur-trimmed tunic was torn, revealing deep, jagged claw marks across his chest. His eyes, though clouded with pain, held a desperate urgency.
“Varteni…” he gasped, collapsing to his knees. “You must return. The Ghorza… they’re everywhere. The Alpha… his magic… it’s failing. They’re slaughtering us in the upper rings.”