Jake leaned hard against the rough bark, breath coming in ragged pulls. He closed his eyes and let the memory of her settle him — Elena's small, steady presence cutting through the fog of pain like a hand on his chest. For a moment, the ache eased; thought of her steadied his breath.
His ears twitched, cataloguing the world: the fade of hooves, the rustle of Leo moving off, then the heavy thud of approaching footsteps. Dan's massive silhouette filled the clearing first, then Goran — squat, broad-shouldered, and deceptively solid. Up close, Goran's build betrayed thick muscle beneath a deceptively plump frame; streaks of white threaded through his dark hair, and two small badger ears peeked out where the hair fell. His black eyes were sharp and bright, like polished stones that had seen too much.
"You all right, boss?" Dan rumbled as Jake's lids fluttered open.
"Better," Jake rasped, forcing a nod toward the badger healer. Goran chuckled, low and tolerant. "This isn't even the worst you've dragged back, boy."
Goran was the name of the physician who had healed him, his magic soothing the pain of his arrow wound and mana channels.
Jake shook his head, golden eyes catching the light. His mana channels ached, scorched but intact—like the dull sting that lingers a day after touching a hot stove.
"From the sounds of Leo, you only made a short jump with your channels at the limit; you're lucky," Goran said, as he kneeled to Jake, making sure everything healed correctly. Goran's magic was odd; it didn't create skin or tissue, no, it just hastened it.
"Thanks, Goran," Jake said, looking at the badger as he examined him.
Goran snorted, then offered a dry smile. "Wait three days before you push it again. You won't be sneaking off so much, but you'll live to be a menace another day."
Jake nodded as he stood up, the gauze finally off. He walked over to his coat, which hung from a branch. A sharp, quieter screech cut the air, and Jake looked up. Vantim — Audrey's hawk — sitting on a branch overhead. The bird's presence eased something in him; he grinned despite the ache. "I owe you as many beers as you want, Audrey," he called, more playful than he felt. The hawk answered with a shout and a triumphant beat of its wings.
Jake pulled his coat off the branch it rested on and slipped it on, the leather still warm from the sun. He set his jaw and the light in his eyes flattened into cold resolve. "The crest was Dale," he said, voice low and smooth as a blade. "Borris Dale. Today, he dies."
Dan's knuckles whitened on his fist; Goran only shook his head in that small, private way that meant both disapproval and inevitability. The healer had learned long ago not to ask questions. He steadied the injured, staunched the blood, and kept secrets the way a good physician keeps confidences — without judgment, without curiosity. He healed, and that was enough.
They rode on while Vantim flew above them, a dark star tracing the sky as the hawk checked their rear. The forest fell away behind them as they took one of the many low corridors that led to the underground city. Darkness swallowed their horses' hooves; the passageways smelled of smoke, iron, and old secrets. Goran left them at the mouth of a narrow lane and slipped back into his shop, disappearing as quietly as he'd come.
Jake didn't wait. Word moved fast beneath Altor. He found Borris Dale's house on the map within the hour — a name on paper, a house with doors open to the street, a man courted by light instead of hiding in it. He wasn't skulking in shadow the way an assassin must; he was arrogant enough to be brazen.
"So we're killing the bastard?" Shawn asked, the axe balanced on his shoulder like a promise. He didn't need to look up to know the answer.
"Yes." Jake's voice was low; his tail lashed once against the floor as if it could drum the certainty into the room.
"You made a promise," Shawn said softly, and that one sentence folded the room in silence.
The memory came back so sharp it hurt: Elena's eyes when she'd asked, gentle and pleading — not because she was weak, but because she trusted him not to be swallowed by what he was. Her hand on his cheek had been a tether. She had asked for restraint. She had asked for survival by other means.
Jake slammed his fist down on the table, the map shuddering under his palm. The wood cracked with the sound — a fracture that seemed to mirror something inside him. The splintered grain ran like a vein across their plans. Pain flared in his knuckles, but it did nothing to dull the hot, rising red of fury.
Shawn didn't flinch at the strike. He only leaned forward, brotherly, steady. "Kill him or not, I follow," he said. No sermon. No judgment. Just the blunt fact of loyalty.
Jake's thoughts split like the crack in the table. On one side was Elena's face — the soft, terrible command not to let blood be the first answer. On the other hand was the fresh memory of the forest: the pain of the arrow in his side, the way the world had narrowed to the sound of her breathing. Someone had tried to kill her. Someone tried to draw blood from his Fox.
"If we're going to reform the underground," Jake said finally, voice raw, "people will die." He didn't like the words. They tasted of iron. They tasted like the map's ink.
"Aye." Shawn was quiet, the axe catching candlelight. "Then choose who dies and who lives. Is Borris a future thorn or a dead branch? That's the question."
Jake looked at the split in the wood, at the two dark lines that divided the table as surely as two roads divided a life. Reformation by law: slow, brittle, maybe possible. Reformation by blood: immediate, savage, certain.
Elena's promise sat heavy in his chest, and beneath it, the wolf stirred — patient, hungry.
He let out a breath that trembled between a snarl and a sigh. The room waited for a name, for a command. The city below shifted and plotted and would not forgive indecision.
He could feel the future leaning toward whichever choice he made. He could feel Elena's light at his sternum, gentle and accusing. He could feel the wolf under his ribs, low and patient and hungry.
Jake pushed his fingers into the fresh split and tasted the decision on his tongue. He did not yet speak it aloud — not yet. Choices sounded different when they left the mouth. They hardened into blades once spoken.
For a long moment, he stood there, on the seam between the two roads, the map crumpled beneath his palm and the echo of hoofbeats fading into the city's bones.
Then finally, he looked up at Shawn. The answer would not be just a plan. It would be a man laid down, or a man raised. Either way, the ground would drink blood.