“His magic… it’s failing. They’re slaughtering us in the upper rings.” The words, ragged and desperate, tore through the exhaustion clinging to Neyza. She stared at the fallen sentry, his chest a bloody ruin, his plea echoing across the shattered infirmary floor. Bozan was dying. The cold, logical part of her brain, the one Dabrak had tried to nurture with grim whispers, had always known this was possible, but the thought now was a raw, burning agony. “The upper rings are a warzone, Varteni,” the wolf gasped, hauling his weight onto an elbow, his face contorted. “Dabrak’s forces are pulling back, taking the pack’s supplies with them. There’s no point. The Alpha… he sacrificed too much for you.” Neyza’s gaze drifted from the wounded scout to the cowering assassins trapped in the reinforced cage, then to Chulpan, who now stood on three legs, fur bristling, a low snarl rumbling in her chest. The lynx’s amber eyes met Neyza’s, a silent question passing between them. Neyza knew what she had to do. The moon-stone, a glowing ember against her skin, pulsed faintly, a cold comfort. “Where are the departing wagons?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended, ignoring her cracked ribs. The wolf, startled by her force, pointed a trembling hand towards the north road leading up into the heights of Oskara. “The main supply route, but it’s… madness. They’re fleeing the post. You can’t go there.” Neyza didn’t wait for him to finish. “Chulpan, stay here. Keep watch. Tend them,” she ordered, gesturing to the wounded wolf and the cowering assassins. The lynx let out a protesting trill, rubbing her head against Neyza’s hip. Neyza knelt, stroking the soft fur. “I’ll be back. I promise.” She pressed the cool, glowing moon-stone into the lynx’s fur, tucking it securely. “Keep this safe for me.” Chulpan nudged her hand, then, with a reluctant huff, settled into a defensive crouch near the clinic’s entrance. Ignoring the throbbing in her temples, Neyza rifled through her remaining medical kit, stuffing vials of pain-numbing herbs, rolls of sterile bandages, and a sharp bone saw into a satchel. The air thrummed with distant roars and the metallic clang of steel on stone. The sounds of a losing battle. She burst into the freezing mountain air, scanning the street. A lone supply cart, laden with crates and barrels, rumbled down a side alley, its driver frantically whipping a pair of shaggy mountain-goats. Neyza didn’t hesitate. She launched herself forward, scrambling onto the back of the cart, startling the driver with a shout. “Up the mountain, now!” The driver, a scrawny human boy no older than sixteen, gaped at her. “Are you mad? The Ghorza are everywhere!” “And the Alpha needs help!” Neyza yelled, her voice raw with urgency. She grabbed the reins from his slackened grip, yanking them hard. The goats bleated in protest, but the cart lurched forward, gaining speed. The boy, too stunned to argue, clung to the side. The winding road grew steeper, the air thinner and colder. Smoke plumed from the upper rings, a black stain against the twilight sky. The ground trembled beneath them with the impact of unseen skirmishes. As they rounded a sharp bend, a chaotic scene unfolded before them. Tarnok fighters, their fur matted with blood, stumbled down the path, some carrying wounded comrades. And amongst them, a familiar, portly figure, adorned in rich furs, shoved his way through the descending ranks, two heavy wooden chests clutched in his arms. “Dabrak Karsal!” Neyza’s voice sliced through the din, echoing off the rock faces. The patriarch froze, his pale eyes staring in sudden disbelief. His guards, burdened with their own loot, exchanged uneasy glances. Dabrak’s face twisted into a snarl. “Varteni! What insanity is this? Turn back, you fool! This is no place for a human.” Neyza jumped from the cart, landing lightly on the uneven ground. Her gaze swept over the weary, terrified faces of the descending pack. “Look at him!” she roared, her voice surprisingly strong, cutting through the chaos like a honed blade. “Your Alpha, Bozan Karsal, is fighting and dying to shield this city, to keep you whole! And what is your glorious patriarch doing? Fleeing! With your gold, your silver, your ancestral treasures, while you bleed on the stones!” A ripple went through the pack. Muffled growls emerged. Some of the younger wolves, their eyes wide with disbelief and dawning fury, turned to stare at Dabrak, who visibly paled. He sputtered, “Silence, human! This is not your concern! I am securing the pack’s future!” “Securing it for yourself!” Neyza shot back, stepping closer, blood rushing in her ears but her stance unwavering. “He deserted his son, walked out on you, to save his own skin and line his coffers. He leaves Bozan to die, and Oskara to burn!” Her words ignited a spark. A low, collective snarl rose from the pack. The shame, the betrayal, fueled a new kind of fire in their eyes. A young, scarred wolf, his arm hanging limp, dropped his pack and howled, a defiant, rallying cry. Others joined him, turning their backs on Dabrak, their gazes now fixed on Neyza, on her fierce, unyielding stance. “For the Alpha!” the scarred wolf roared, turning back up the perilous path. “For Oskara!” The downward route reversed. Spurred by the human's fury, the weary Tarnok vanguards locked their shields into an iron wall, lunging uphill against the encroaching dark. Dabrak, deserted by his escort, stood alone, his face a mask of impotent rage, as the roar of the rallied pack faded into the smoke-choked heights. Neyza followed the surging vanguard, driving her trembling legs upward. The battlefield was a nightmare of torn earth and bloodied snow. Invading fiends, hulking masses of twisted sinew and razor claws, tore through the remaining defenses. She saw the familiar faces of wolves she had treated, now fighting with a desperate ferocity. They cleared a path for her, forming a protective circle as she moved, calling out instructions, assessing injuries. Then, a shadow fell over her. A truly monstrous brute, twice the size of the others, its hide like scarred obsidian, its talons dripping with ichor, breached the line. It roared, a sound that vibrated through her bones, and lunged directly for her. There was no time to react, no space to run. Its gaping maw, lined with jagged fangs, descended upon her. She squeezed her eyes shut, a silent plea for Bozan forming on her lips. Then, a flash of tawny fur, a blur of motion. A pained howl. Bozan. He had come. He threw himself between her and the beast, his body a shield. The Ghorza’s massive claw, meant for Neyza, instead found purchase, driving through his chest with a sickening crunch. It impaled him, piercing straight through his sternum, a gruesome, mortal wound. Bozan gasped, his breath tearing from his lungs, his eyes locking onto hers, full of a heartbreaking tenderness, as the beast ripped its claw free, sending him sprawling to the blood-slicked earth. He lay there, unmoving, a single, silver tear tracing a path down his cheek, his gaze fixed on her, fading as the blood bloomed on his tunic. “No!” Neyza screamed, a guttural cry tearing raw from her throat as ice seized her chest, watching the vital spark ebb from his gaze. His body seized, a shudder running through him. A final, whispered word, not with his voice, but a fleeting thought, brushed against her mind, cold and distant: *Neyza…* And then, the light in his eyes vanished, leaving only a hollow, terrifying emptiness.

Up the Mountain