Seres Crone POV
Seres's lips moved in a silent, desperate plea, her voice a trembling whisper lost beneath the snarls. "He Who Must Not Be Remembered, Lord of the Dawning Light… if nothing else, grant Ethan mercy. Spare him."
The wolves' glowing eyes tightened their circle, the D-rank beast lowering its haunches for the final, killing lunge. Beside her, Ethan's breath hitched—a raw sound of shared fear and utter helplessness reflected in his wide, glistening eyes.
The beast sprang, a black mass of claws and teeth aimed at her heart. Seres shoved Ethan clear, bracing for the rending impact.
But steel flashed instead.
A spearhead, sharp and sudden, erupted from the darkness, intercepting the wolf's lunge mid-air with brutal force. It was not her magic that met the beast, but cold, unforgiving iron.
The wolf lunged, a black torrent of death aimed at Seres's throat. Its jaws gaped wide, promising a swift, brutal end. But a blur of gold and motion slid between them at the very last second.
A sickening, wet crunch echoed through the clearing, a sound that would haunt her forever. Not her bones. His.
Ardyn's body went rigid as the D-rank wolf's fangs sank deep into his forearm, the force of the impact whipping his head back. Seres saw the stark agony that contorted his features, heard the choked gasp he stifled. Yet, in that same blinding, impossible moment, he used the pain. His other hand, already moving, gripped the haft of the axe strapped to his back. With a raw, guttural cry that was part anguish, part fury, he drove the blade upward in a short, devastating arc, burying it deep into the wolf's skull.
The beast dropped instantly, its monstrous weight collapsing to the forest floor, lifeless. The force of the kill wrenched the axe from Ardyn's grip, the weapon trapped in the creature's skull.
He staggered back, his breathing ragged and shallow. His left arm hung at a grotesque angle, slick with dark blood that looked black in the torchlight. The limb was clearly shattered, useless. But he remained standing, swaying slightly, his body a trembling, unyielding wall between her, the wounded Ethan, and the remaining wolves. His eyes, wide with shock and pain, were fixed on the circling threats, his sacrifice a silent, terrifying declaration that he would not fall. Not while they still breathed.
The death of the D-rank wolf did not grant them a reprieve. It only enraged the pack. From the corner of her eye, Seres saw another wolf—smaller, faster, an E-rank—break from the circle. It darted not toward Ardyn, but toward Ethan, who was still scrambling backward on the ground, his one good leg kicking uselessly at the leaves.
Ethan's eyes widened, pure terror wiping away the pain on his face. He had no weapon, no stance, no hope.
Ardyn saw it too. Without a sound, without even a grunt of effort, he wrenched Ethan's spear from the ground where he'd planted it. The motion was a single, fluid continuation of his violent dance. He didn't aim; he simply threw. The spear became a bolt of cold steel, streaking through the murky air.
It struck precisely on target.
The wolf was in mid-leap, jaws stretched for Ethan's vulnerable throat, when the spearhead pierced clean through its chest. The force carried the beast backward, pinning it to a thick tree trunk with a solid thunk. The creature let out a single, choked snarl, its legs twitched violently once, and then it fell still, suspended by the weapon that had killed it.
Ethan stared, his breath frozen in his lungs, his gaze locked on the wolf impaled just inches from where he lay. Then his eyes snapped to Ardyn, his lips parting as if to speak, but no sound emerged. There were no words for what he had just witnessed.
Seres, too, was transfixed. In the erratic torchlight, she caught the glow in Ardyn's eyes. It was bright, fierce, burning with an intensity that seemed to eat the darkness around it. It was more than determination, more than adrenaline. It was something ancient and terrifying, something that did not belong to a wounded boy from the snow.
But the spectacle was fleeting. Two wolves remained. The third, the largest of the E-ranks, hung back, its intelligent eyes watching, assessing, letting its packmates test the weakened prey.
Ardyn swayed on his feet. A dark wave of dizziness washed over him, his vision blurring at the edges, narrowing to a tunnel focused on the circling threats. His left arm was a ruin, hanging limp and useless at his side, blood streaming from the mangled flesh to patter a steady, ominous rhythm on the fallen leaves. Yet, as the wolves paced, he shifted his stance, planting his feet firmly. He transferred Ethan's knife to his good hand, the blade looking small and pitiful against the monsters they faced.
"Stay behind me," he growled, his voice a ragged, blood-flecked whisper, but its core was iron, unwavering.
The two testing wolves darted in, one from each side, low growls rumbling in their chests. Ardyn moved with the last dregs of his strength, a slashing arc of the knife that forced the first to recoil. But the effort cost him. He stumbled, his balance faltering, a sharp cry of agony finally escaping his clenched teeth as the movement jolted his shattered arm. The second wolf saw its opening and lunged, not for a kill, but to hamstring, to cripple him completely.
This time, there was no glorious throw, no clean kill. It was a desperate, close-quarters struggle. Ardyn met the lunge, his body colliding with the wolf's. Claws raked his side, teeth snapped inches from his face. He drove the knife upward, not with precision, but with raw, survival instinct, finding the beast's throat. A hot gush of blood soaked his hand and tunic as the wolf collapsed against him with a wet gurgle, its weight nearly taking him down.
He shoved the carcass away, staggering back, his breath coming in ragged, shallow pulls. He was drenched in blood—his own, the wolves'—his body screaming in protest with every shuddering heartbeat. Only one wolf remained, and it finally began its advance, its patience at an end.
The last wolf, the one still bearing Ethan's knife like a grotesque trophy in its shoulder, did not circle. It gathered itself and leapt, a final blur of black fur and vengeance. Ardyn, weakened and off-balance, dropped his own knife in the frantic scramble. The beast crashed into him, its full weight driving him to the ground, its snarling muzzle snapping inches from his face.
Pinned, with the wolf's hot, rancid breath washing over him, Ardyn's good hand scrabbled blindly across the heaving, matted fur. His fingers found not fur, but the familiar, blood-slicked hilt of Ethan's blade, still buried deep in the creature's shoulder. With a raw, guttural roar that tore from the depths of his being, he wrenched the knife free and, in the same desperate motion, rammed it upward with every shred of his remaining strength, driving it deep into the wolf's chest.
A hot flood of blood spilled over him, soaking his tunic, his neck, his face. The wolf convulsed once, a final, violent shudder, then collapsed atop him, its dead weight suddenly limp and heavy.
Silence fell, abrupt and absolute, broken only by the ragged, shuddering sound of Ardyn's breathing. He shoved the corpse aside with a grunt of effort, rising to his feet on trembling legs. Blood dripped from his ruined arm, from the new gashes on his side, and from the borrowed knife he still clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
Seres could only stare, wide-eyed, her own breath caught in her throat. Two wolf corpses lay at his feet, a third still pinned to a tree by his spear. But it was the figure standing amidst the carnage that held her transfixed. In the oppressive quiet, the eerie glow in his eyes had not faded. It burned—a fierce, unnatural gold against the dark, painting the lines of his blood-streaked face in a light that was both beautiful and terrifying. This was not the lost boy she had found in the snow. This was something else entirely. A figure who had just faced down death itself for them.
For a long, terrible moment, the only sound in the clearing was the drip of blood on leaves and the ragged, shuddering pull of Ardyn's own breath. He took a staggering step forward, then another, each movement a monumental effort. His boots scuffed through the gore-soaked earth, his shattered arm hanging at a grotesque angle, blood streaming from the terrible bite to patter a steady, dark rhythm onto the forest floor.
He turned his dim, wavering gaze toward them, his face pale and streaked with dirt and blood, but his expression was one of profound relief. His eyes, their terrifying glow finally fading to a dull, exhausted gold, found Seres.
"Happy… birthday, Seres," he rasped, his voice a shredded, unsteady thing, yet it carried a warmth that seemed to defy the cold night and the surrounding death. A weak, almost apologetic smile touched his bloodied lips. "Sorry… it took so long." His gaze flickered over the carnage, the three lifeless wolves, the blood that seemed to be everywhere. "Sorry… for all this mess."
For a moment, his words hung in the night air—so absurdly gentle, so fragile, yet so utterly, devastatingly full of care that it stole the air from Seres's lungs. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in stunned, disbelieving silence. Beside her, Ethan could only stare, his own pain forgotten in the face of this incomprehensible sacrifice.
Then, as if the words had been the final thread holding him upright, Ardyn's knees buckled. The knife slipped from his limp fingers, clattering against a stone. He swayed for a heart-stopping second, then fell heavily, crumpling to the ground without another sound.
The spell broke. Seres surged forward, a choked cry escaping her as she dropped to her knees beside him. Her hands, usually so steady and sure, trembled violently as she pressed them against the worst of the wounds on his arm, trying to staunch the relentless flow of blood. It was hot and slick against her palms, a horrifying testament to the price he had paid. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, terrified drum. She wanted to scream at him, to scold him for his recklessness, to call him a fool for valuing their lives over his own—but her voice shattered, caught in her throat between a sob of sheer terror and a wave of overwhelming, gut-wrenching gratitude.
Ethan clutched at her sleeve, his own face ashen, his body shaking with a mixture of pain, shock, and guilt. "Is he…?" he whispered, the question dying in the air, too terrible to finish.
Neither of them had ever felt more helpless. Seres pressed harder, her whispers becoming frantic, fractured prayers to any spirit that might be listening. Ethan could only watch, his eyes wide and glistening, his knuckles white where he gripped her arm.
For a long, frozen heartbeat, there was nothing. No movement, no sound from Ardyn's chest. The terrible stillness convinced them both that he was gone—that he had given his last breath to wish her a happy birthday and had left them forever in this bloody clearing.
Then, a faint, rasping breath escaped his pale lips. It was a shallow, struggling sound, but it was life. His eyelids fluttered, a mere tremor, but it was enough. He was still there. Hanging on by a thread, but there.