[i]“Come,”[/i] he heard her hiss, twisting human undertones with the serpentine edge of a snake—how fitting.
[i]“I’ll make this quick for you, dog. I can’t bear to hear a mutt whine for mercy.”[/i]

[b]“Fucking body bag,”[/b] the male wolf barked, hate dripping from his muzzle as rows of jagged teeth flashed. Still, he circled her a moment longer, pacing like a shadow waiting for the exact heartbeat Ren might leave herself open. It wasn’t strategy so much as instinct—a wild creature reacting on pure predatory impulse.

In that instant, he caught sight of his sister. The scent of charred fur stung his nose. Horror flickered across his features—brief but unmistakable. He had to get back to her… and soon.

With a guttural roar, he lunged, arms sweeping wide in an attempt to close around the ancient vampire and crush inward—torso, neck, whatever he could catch. The sound he unleashed vibrated through the trees, primal and thunderous, a warning of just how much raw power he carried in his lupine frame. Ren would have to rely entirely on her speed and precision; in pure physical strength, they were almost equals, and the werewolf towered over her.

[hr]
Their link jolted—subtle, sharp—with the nervous tension running down Ren’s spine. The sensation only caused Lyselle to anchor herself more firmly, her muscles tightening in reflexive readiness. She answered that tremor with a tap of reassurance through the bond: quiet confidence, wordlessly telling Ren [i]focus on your fight; I have mine handled.[/i]

The huntress watched the she-wolf’s body go slack just long enough for Wysteria to crawl free, kicking up damp soil as she stumbled backwards.
[i]“Alright, human. Now deal with that one!”[/i]

Lyselle shot her a quick glare—not hostility, but warning. She would not be ordered around by some half-feral vampire, fledgling or not. Yet the bond hummed faintly, recognition passing through it: something of Ren lingered in the young vampire. It softened Lyselle’s expression for only a breath.

Then the she-wolf moved.

Pain and rage twisted Violet’s features as she staggered to her feet, more animal now than before. But even at this heightened ferocity, Lyselle moved first. She was trained to fight monsters with nothing more than human limits; now, something pushed those limits further, sharpening her instincts to a razor edge.

She read the microexpressions, the twitch of muscle, the shift of weight—saw the attack before it fully formed. She pivoted back, sliding just outside Violet’s reach, then surged forward again with startling speed.

Both blades found flesh.

The short sword carved a deep line across Violet’s shoulder.
The dagger thrust upward, catching her eye—half-blinding her, staggering the already-wounded werewolf and sending another burst of hot blood splattering into the dirt.