Raphael held Siluren pinned to the earth, his weight solid and unyielding, his jaws hovering just above Siluren's throat.
He did not growl.
The absence of sound was deliberate.
Among wolves, it meant one thing: forfeit.
The clearing seemed to hold its breath. Moonlight washed over blood-matted fur and torn earth, over the shallow furrows carved by claws and desperation. Raphael's chest heaved, but his eyes were steady, locked onto Siluren's.
Yield, they said.
End this.
Siluren answered with a snarl.
It was weak, fractured by pain and pride, but it was still defiance. His lips peeled back from bloodstained teeth as he snapped upward, trying to catch Raphael's throat in a last, futile act of rebellion.
Raphael reacted without hesitation.
