Silas Coilheart POV
The witch's scent is absolute torment, a mix of ripe berries and raw magic that claws at my senses. It's driving my serpent blood into a fucking frenzy. I coil in the shadows, hidden beneath a tangle of brambles, watching her tree perch high in the ancient oak.
She's clever, this one. She uses cloaking spells, thorn barriers and arrows laced with witch fire. But no one outruns Silas Coilheart forever. I'll have her, break her, breed her, and leave her husk for the crows. My fangs drip venom at the thought, it sizzles as it hits the earth.
Night blankets the Killground, the moon a thin sickle casting jagged shadows. I wait, patient as death. Her breathing slows, it's faint but steady, drifting from the high fork where she's curled. Asleep. Vulnerable. Perfect.
My coils slither forward sileny, my scales gliding over the moss like oil on water. The tree looms ahead, its bark scored from her climb. Her scent is the thickest at the base. I rear up, my humanoid torso rising, serpentine lower half coiling for leverage. My claws dig into the trunk, testing the thorns she wove earlier, they've weakened, her magic fading with her exhaustion. I grin, my forked tongue flicking. She's mine.
I climb, slowly and carefully, my coils wrapping the trunk, dodging the last of her barbs. The air grows heavy with her presence. It's wild, defiant and intoxicating. My hands are inches from her perch when a roar splits the night. "Coilheart!" Hadrian's voice thunders, shaking the leaves. I hiss in anger, twisting to look down. The lion king storms into the clearing, his golden eyes blazing, flanked by Fenrick's black wolf form and Nythor's white striped tiger. Three against one. Again.
Before I can retreat, Hadrian lunges, his damn human hands seizing my tail with brutal strength. He yanks, hard, and I'm torn from the tree, scales scraping bark as he hurls me into a thicket of thorns. Pain lances through me, venom spraying everywhere as I crash, branches snapping under my weight.
"You slimy fuck!" Hadrian roars, shifting mid stride, his lion form erupting and his mane flared like wildfire. Fenrick's wolf snarls with teeth bared, while Nythor's tiger circles, his eyes cold as frost.
I coil to strike, my rage boiling over. They're protecting her. I fucking knew it. "She's a breeder!" I hiss angrily. "You can't hoard her for yourselves!"
Branwen POV
The roar jolts me awake, my heart slamming like a hammer in my chest. I'm curled in my tree fork, my dagger in hand, the Killground's darkness pressing in. Below, chaos erupts, Hadrian's lion is hovering over the slimy snake shifter. Black Wolf and White Tiger flank him, growling and circling. The snake must be the one who chased me earlier. Slimy bastard.
I peer down, gripping my bow, arrow already nocked and ready. Hadrian's voice booms up, human again, and rough with concern. "Witch! You all right up there?"
I swallow, my hands shaky but my voice steady. "Fine, Lion. Just enjoying the show." My sarcasm hides the tremor in my gut. That snake was climbing my tree. If they hadn't shown up…
The snake hisses, lunging from the bushes in a blur of scales and venom. "She's mine!" he screeches, his claws slashing at Hadrian's chest. He roars, swiping back, blood spraying as he rakes Silas's side. Hadrian ahifts back into lion form. Fenrick's wolf dives in, his jaws clamp onto Silas's coils, while Nythor's tiger pounces, tearing into his shoulder. It's a brutal dance, three beasts pummeling one, but Silas fights like a demon, his claws slicing, venom spitting. His lethal tail whips Fenrick into a tree.
They're going to kill him. Or he'll kill them. My stomach twists. He's vile, a predator who'd use me like a broodmare, but this… this is carnage. I can't watch another second.
I stand on the branch, my bow drawn, magic flaring in my veins. "Moss and mist, strike true," I whisper, pouring a seeker spell into the arrow. It hums, glowing faintly. Silas rears up, his fangs aimed for Nythor's throat. I loose my arrow.
The arrow flies true, a streak of witch fire, and buries itself in Silas's eye. He screams, a wet, gurgling sound, before collapsing. His coils thrash once, then he stills. Blood pools under him, venom sizzling into the dirt. He is dead.
The clearing falls silent. Hadrian, Fenrick, and Nythor freeze, half-shifted, staring at the corpse, then up at me. Their eyes, gold, amber and ice, hold shock, and maybe awe. I lower my bow, my heart pounding, but keep my chin held high. I have no apologies. Not for that snake bastard.
Fenrick Bloodhowl POV
I shift back to human, my chest heaving. There is blood dripping from a gash on my arm. The witch stands on her branch, her bow still in hand, those chestnut curls wild, green eyes blazing like a storm. That shot… gods, it was perfect. Deadly. She could've killed any of us, me, Hadrian, Nythor, from the start. One arrow through the eye, and we'd be meat. Yet she didn't. Why?
"You could've killed any of us like that, wild witch," I say, my voice rough, a grin tugging at my lips. "Right from the first day. Why didn't you?"
She doesn't answer, just stares down, her face a mask of defiance and something softer, something that makes my wolf howl inside. Maybe our little witch is warming to us. The thought sends heat through my blood, primal and hungry.
I step forward, wiping blood from my jaw. "I'm Fenrick Bloodhowl, Wolf Lord of the Frostfang Dominion. We're not like that snake filth. We don't break what's ours." I nod toward Silas's corpse. "You're too fierce for his kind. But you're not safe alone. The clans are fracturing, war js coming to the humans. They'll burn the wilds to keep their walls standing. We need you, witch. Not just as a mate, but as a spark to keep our bloodlines alive."
Hadrian shifts, his golden hair falling into his eyes, blood still streaking his chest. "Hadrian Ironpaw, King of the Emberspire. My pride's strong, but it's dying without heirs. The plague took our females, and the culling war broke our clans. I was raised in fire, trained to lead, to protect. You're no pet to me, you're a queen who could burn beside me."
Nythor rises, snow-white hair glinting in the moonlight, his voice calm but sharp as ice. "Nythor Frostbite, Prince of the Crystalfang Isles. My kind are solitary, but we know magic. Yours calls to me, wild one. The land's waking, and your power is tied to it. I know you feel it. The humans fear it and hunt it. Join us, and we'll shield you from their torches."
We stand there, baring our names, and our truths, waiting for her to bite back with that sharp tongue. But the branch is empty. We peer up, confused, only to hear boots crunch behind us. We whirl around quickly.
She steps from the shadows, bow slung over her shoulder, dagger at her hip, leather clinging to curves that could fucking start wars. Her curls frame her face like a crown and fall to her hips, those green eyes cutting through us like glass. She's beautiful, fierce, wild and untamed. My wolf whines, wanting to claim her right there.
"Keep talking, furballs," she says, voice dripping sass. "But if you think I'm climbing down to be your queen, mate, or bloody spark, you're dumber than a sack of rocks. I'm Branwen Mosswood. I don't need saving, I need surviving. So unless you've got a way to get me through these Games, bugger off."
I grin wider, my heart pounding wildly. She's warming to us, all right. And gods help me, I'm fucking burning for her.