Chapter 41

Chapter 41: Chapter 41

The gates of Shadowmoon Academy had never looked so welcoming.

Killian walked through them with the rest of Team Delta, his injured arm throbbing beneath its bandage, his body moving on nothing but adrenaline and spite. They had made it. They had actually made it. Aldric’s body left behind in the forest, food for the rogues, but the rest of them were alive.

The courtyard was chaos. Students crowded around the returning teams, shouting questions and offering water and blankets. Healers rushed back and forth, their arms full of bandages and potions. The air smelled of blood and smoke and the sharp, medicinal bite of healing herbs.

"Over here! This one needs treatment!"

Hands guided Killian toward the healer’s wing. He didn’t resist. His arm was on fire, the wolfsbane still not fully neutralized, and he could feel his strength waning with every step. The healer who examined him was efficient and unsympathetic, cleaning the wound with something that stung like acid and wrapping it in fresh bandages.

"You’ll live," she said. "Rest here for the night. We need to monitor the wolfsbane levels."

"Fine."

She led him to a room with two beds. One was empty. The other was not.

Killian stopped in the doorway.

Corvin lay in the far bed, his dark hair spread across the pillow, his face pale but peaceful. His chest rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. A blanket was pulled up to his chin, and his hands rested at his sides, relaxed and still.

Killian’s heart slammed against his ribs.

"What—" His voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. "What is he doing here? Is he injured badly?"

The healer glanced at Corvin’s bed. "Eldritch? No, he’s fine. Exhausted, mostly. Carried his teammate through the forest for hours. His body gave out when he got back. We gave him a sleeping draught to help him rest."

"So he’s not hurt?"

"A few scratches. Nothing serious. He just needs sleep." She gestured to the empty bed. "Now lie down. I’ll be back to check on you in an hour."

She left. The door clicked shut behind her.

Killian stood frozen in the middle of the room, staring at Corvin’s sleeping face. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.

He’s fine. He’s alive. He’s right here.

He walked to Corvin’s bed slowly, as if approaching a wild animal that might startle and flee. Corvin didn’t move. The sleeping draught had pulled him deep under, far beyond the reach of footsteps or whispered words.

Killian sat down on the edge of the bed. His injured arm throbbed, but he barely noticed. All he could see was Corvin the sharp angles of his face softened by sleep, the dark lashes resting against his cheeks, the lips slightly parted. He looked younger like this. Less guarded. Less untouchable.

"I was so worried about you," Killian whispered. "The whole time in the forest. I kept thinking what if something happened to you? What if you got hurt and I wasn’t there to help you?"

Corvin didn’t answer. He just kept breathing, slow and steady.

Killian reached out. His fingers trembled as they brushed a strand of dark hair from Corvin’s forehead. The touch was featherlight, barely there, but it sent a shiver through his entire body.

"You never notice me," he continued, his voice barely audible. "I’ve been right here. This whole time. Trying to get your attention. Trying to make you see me. But you only have eyes for Thorne. Always Thorne. What does he have that I don’t?"

Silence.

"I could make you happy. I know I could. If you just gave me a chance. If you just looked at me the way you look at him." His fingers traced down Corvin’s cheek, gentle as a breath. "Maybe now that Draven has done his job, things will be different. Maybe now you’ll finally see me."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Corvin’s forehead. It was soft. Reverent. Full of all the longing he’d been carrying for months.

"Rest well," he whispered. "I’ll be here when you wake up."

He pulled back and returned to his own bed, lying down on his uninjured side so he could keep watching Corvin’s face.

He’s here. He’s safe. And for now, that’s enough.

His arm throbbed. His body ached. But for the first time in weeks, Killian smiled.

The forest stretched endlessly before them, dark and cold. Ragnar walked slightly ahead, his hand wrapped firmly around Finn’s, his eyes scanning every tree, every bush, every patch of fog that might be hiding a rogue. He had been in protection mode since the moment they’d been separated from the others, and he showed no signs of letting up.

"You know," Finn said, breaking the comfortable silence, "if someone had told me a month ago that I’d be walking through the Mistwood holding hands with Ragnar Blackfang, I would have laughed in their face."

"Would you?"

"Absolutely. I would have said, ’Ragnar Blackfang? The scarred guy who looks like he eats first-years for breakfast? The one who made me climb walls until my fingers bled?’ No chance."

Ragnar’s lips twitched. "I did make you climb walls."

"You made me climb the same wall seventeen times. I counted."

"Your form was sloppy."

"My form was fine! You just liked watching me suffer."

"That too." Ragnar glanced back at him, his scarred face softening. "But you never quit. Every time I pushed you, you pushed back. Every time I thought you’d finally break, you got up and asked for more. That’s when I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That you were different. That you were worth protecting."

Finn felt his cheeks warm. "You’re just saying that because I’m the only one who’ll kiss you."

"There is that."

"Ragnar!"

"What? I’m being honest. You’re a good kisser. It’s one of your many talents. Right up there with falling off walls and talking too much."

Finn shoved him with his free hand, but there was no force behind it. "You’re the worst. You’re actually the worst person I’ve ever met."

"And yet you’re still holding my hand."

"Tragically."

They walked in comfortable silence for a few more minutes, the forest quiet around them. Then Finn spoke again, his voice softer this time.

"Do you think Marek is okay? And the others? We haven’t seen them since the battle."

Ragnar squeezed his hand. "Marek’s tough. Tougher than he looks. He probably found the others and is already halfway back to the academy, wondering why we’re so slow."

"You really think so?"

"I have to think so. Otherwise I’ll go crazy with worry, and then who would protect your clumsy ass?"

"I’m not clumsy."

"You tripped over a root ten minutes ago."

"That root came out of nowhere."

"It was attached to a tree. Trees are famously stationary."

"I hate you."

"No, you don’t."

Finn sighed. "No, I don’t."

A sound cut through the forest a rustle of leaves, a snap of branches. Ragnar’s entire body went rigid. He pulled Finn behind him in one fluid motion, his axe already in his hand, his stance shifting into combat readiness.

"Stay behind me," he growled, all traces of humor gone.

Finn pressed against his back, his own weapon drawn, his heart hammering. "What is it? Rogues?"

"I don’t know. Something’s moving in the trees ahead."

They waited, tense and ready, as the rustling grew louder. A figure stumbled out of the underbrush. Then another. Then three more.

Marek.

He was at the front, his face pale and streaked with blood, his eyes wild with desperation. Behind him came Tomas and Ashford, both of them supporting the limp form of Senior Lecturer Valdis between them. The instructor’s face was gray, his breathing shallow and ragged. A dark stain spread across his side, and the smell of wolfsbane was thick in the air.

"Ragnar!" Marek’s voice cracked with relief. "Thank the gods. We need help. Valdis is—he’s losing too much blood."

Ragnar and Finn rushed forward. Finn took Valdis’s weight from Ashford while Ragnar pressed his hands against the wound, applying pressure. The instructor groaned, his eyes fluttering.

"Why isn’t his wolf healing him?" Ragnar demanded.

"The dagger that stabbed him," Marek said, his voice shaking. "It was coated with thick wolfsbane. Mixed with something else some kind of poison. His wolf can’t fight it. He’s been like this for almost an hour. He doesn’t have much time left."

Ragnar looked at the wound. The edges were black and festering, the wolfsbane preventing the flesh from knitting back together. Valdis’s pulse was weak, his skin clammy and cold.

"We need to get him to the academy. Now." Ragnar didn’t hesitate. He turned and crouched down. "Put him on my back. I’ll carry him."

"Ragnar, you’re exhausted—"

"I don’t care. Put him on my back. Finn, you guide us. Marek, watch our flank. The rest of you, keep up." His voice was iron, brooking no argument. "We’re not losing anyone else today."

They lifted Valdis onto Ragnar’s back, securing him as best they could with strips of torn fabric. Then Ragnar began to run.

A dead sprint, his wolf surging beneath his skin, lending him strength and speed that went beyond human. Trees blurred past them. Branches whipped at their faces. The forest tried to slow them, but Ragnar plowed through it like a force of nature, his scarred face set in grim determination.

"Come on," he growled. "Just a little further. Don’t you dare die on me, Valdis. Don’t you dare."

The academy was still miles away. But Ragnar ran like the devil himself was chasing him.