POV: LUNA SILVER
The red line creeps across the broken chip like a tiny snake made of fire.
Tick…tick…each beat matches the lullaby humming from the big crystal.
Finn's hand is still glued to mine by the golden thread; we can't let go without maybe hurting the babies, but if we stay the bomb will blow.
"Finn," I whisper, "break the thread."
He shakes his head, eyes wide. "It'll yank the babies' life back into us—too fast."
Elder Mora hears the ticking first. Her ears flatten. She grabs the golden thread between us and tugs, but it's tight as steel wire.
Mara lifts a rock to smash the chip—Milo stops her. "Blast will just come sooner."
My mind races like a rabbit in a trap. The babies roll inside, scared by the buzz. I feel their tiny heartbeats patter-pat-pat against my ribs—two different drums. Two lives counting on us.
"Cut the song," I blurted. "The lullaby powers the bomb."
Elder Mora snaps awake. She presses both palms to the big crystal and shouts ancient words, cutting her chant short. The lullaby hiccups…then keeps going, stronger, angry we tried to stop it.
Tick…tick…faster now.
Finn squeezes my paw. "We trade the blast somewhere safe—like we closed the road."
I nod, understanding. Crystal to crystal.
Milo is already yanking a loose shard from the cave wall—foot-long, spear-thin. He wedges it under the chip between our palms. "When I lever, you two push your power into the shard, not the chip. Send the boom outward."
"Outwardly will still kill us," Mara says.
"Not if we aim into the mountain's old air shaft." Elder Mora points to a crack in the ceiling no wider than a dinner plate.
We have seconds.
Milo counts. "Three…two…one—LEVER!"
He pries. Finn and I shove every spark we feel into the shard. The golden thread flares white. The chip snaps free of our skin, still ticking, red line almost at the end. Milo flicks his wrist like skipping a stone. The chip flies straight into the narrow shaft above.
Elder Mora slams both hands on the cave floor and shouts the final word. Rock grinds, the shaft seals an inch above the chip—just enough to trap the bomb.
BOOM!
The mountain jumps. Dust rains. The sealed shaft muffles most of the blast, but cracks spider across the ceiling. Stones fall like hail. Finn throws his body over mine; Mara shields Elder Mora; Milo ducks under a ledge.
When the roar fades, the cave still stands. The big crystal hums, cracked but alive. The lullaby is gone. Silence rings in my ears.
I feel the babies kick—hard, then harder. The shielding light around my belly flickers like a candle running out of wax. Pain floods back in, real and sharp. I gasp, doubling over.
Finn steadies me. "We're okay—we did it—"
"Luna isn't," Mara says. She points. The golden thread tying Finn and me has turned black from wrist to wrist. The bomb's dark energy soaked in. The thread is now feeding pain into both of us, faster than before.
Elder Mora presses fingers to the black thread, chanting healing words, but the color keeps spreading toward our elbows. If it reaches our hearts, we'll both shut down.
"We need the true healer," she says. "Not tricks, not crystals—real wolf medicine."
"The true healer lives two valleys away," Mara answers. "Three days' run."
"We don't have three hours," I whimper. Another cramp hits; I taste iron.
Finn's silver eyes harden. "Then we bring the mountain to the healer." He lifts me gently, black thread dangling between us like a burned vine.
Milo is already tying ropes from human gear into a sled. Mara wraps me in cloud-silk to keep the babies warm. Elder Mora slices her paw and lets blood drop onto the big crystal. The stone moans, then shoots a narrow beam westward—pointing the shortest path to the healer's den.
We strap me onto the sled. Finn insists on pulling first; his wolf form is strongest. Mara and Milo flank him; Elder Mora rides behind, one hand on my belly, whispering slow-breath songs to keep the babies inside.
The beam lights our way through the tunnel maze and out a hidden back exit into cold night air. Snow has started to fall—thick, soft, hiding our tracks but making the trail slippery.
We race.
Finn's paws crunch snow; sled runners hiss. Every jerk yanks the black thread, sending fire up our arms. We grit our teeth and keep going.
Hours blur. Trees pass like shadow fences. The babies' kicks grow weaker; I feel them drifting to sleep, maybe something worse. I fight to stay awake, counting Finn's breaths, counting stars between pine branches.
At the lowest point, when my eyes start to close on their own, a warm nose touches my cheek—Healer Mora's. She shifts to wolf, presses her ear flat against my tummy, listening through fur and skin and fear.
Thump…thump…thump-thump.
Two tiny drums, still alive, still racing us.
She lifts her head, eyes shining. "They hold, but thread is choking them too. Cut it we must—yet cutting will lose all pain at once. Luna must bear it alone for one minute while Finn recovers. One minute only, or hearts stop."
Finn growls, "I won't leave her."
"You will," Elder Mora says softly. "Or you both fall, and cubs die inside black web."
Finn's paw tightens on the sled rope. Snowflakes settle on his eyelashes like tiny white flags. He nods once, throat moving.
We reach the crest of the final hill. Below lies a warm-lit valley, smoke rising from a single den—healer's home. We're minutes away.
Elder Mora raises a claw above the black thread.
"On my count," she says. "Three…two…"
A sharp crack splits the air—not from her claw, but from the forest beside us. A dart whistles past and thunks into the sled rail, quivering.
A human voice shouts through a megaphone, echoing off snow: "Stand still! We see you, silver wolf. Hand over the specimens."
More darts whiz by—red-feathered, sleep-drugged. One scrapes Finn's shoulder; he staggers but keeps his feet. The black thread jerks, feeding the shock straight into my heart. I cry out.
Through the trees, headlights glare—smaller snow-cats, the humans' back-up trackers, somehow climbed the sealed pass on foot. White-coats fan out, guns raised.
Elder Mora's claw hovers, waiting for a safe second that no longer exists. If she cuts now, the pain surge might knock me out cold—easy prey for nets. If she waits, the thread keeps throttling us both.
Finn bares fangs, half-drugged but standing between me and the guns.
Milo lifts a snow-clod to throw.
Mara growls, shielding my belly with her body.
The lead human aims straight at Finn's heart.
Her finger tightens.
Snow falls silent around us.
Elder Mora's claw trembles above the thread, deciding in a heartbeat whether to slice or hold.
And the babies inside me choose that exact moment to kick so hard the sled creaks—one last drumbeat of warning no one sees coming.