The forest air tastes like copper and rot. Hours of walking and the trees keep getting denser, the ground rockier. My boots slip on loose stones. Riven's breathing has changed. Sharper. Shallower.
I glance back at him. Sweat beads his forehead despite the cool air. His face has gone pale, almost gray in the filtered sunlight.
"How's the shoulder?" I ask.
"Fine."
"Show me."
"No need."
I close the distance between us. "I said show me."
"Arida—"
"Now."
He meets my gaze. Holds it for three seconds. Then slowly, carefully, he peels back the edge of the bandage.
The wound is angry. Red. The edges have started turning black. Yellow pus oozes from the center. The smell hits me like a fist.
"It's infected," I say.
"I know."
"How long has it been like this?"
"Since the fight." He adjusts the bandage with shaking fingers. "Gets worse every hour."
"You didn't think to say something?"
"What was I supposed to say?" His voice sharpens. "Stop running so I can die slower?"
My jaw clenches. "We could've cleaned it better."
He meets my eyes. "With what? We used everything we had."
He's right. I hate that he's right.
"You should have told me."
"What would you have done differently?" His voice is rough. "We can't stop. We can't go back. So what's the point?"
"The point is I need to know how bad it is."
"It's bad." He lets the bandage fall back into place. "But I can still walk. I can still fight if I have to."
"For how long?"
He doesn't answer.
"Riven. For how long?"
"Long enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." He pushes past me, keeps walking. Each step looks harder than the last. His shoulders hunch forward. His jaw stays clenched.
We're deep in unclaimed territory now. No pack scent markers. No trails. The terrain shifts underfoot, rocks jutting up through earth like broken teeth. Ancient pines tower overhead, their branches blocking most of the sunlight. The underbrush grows thicker here. Wild. Untamed by wolf paws or human hands.
I catch movement between the pines. Forty yards ahead. Too deliberate to be prey. Too careful to be coincidence.
My hand moves to the knife at my belt.
Behind me, Riven stops walking. His body goes rigid.
A wolf emerges from behind a cluster of trees. Male. Middle-aged. A scar cuts across his muzzle from ear to jaw. Old wound. Deep. The kind that should have killed him. He's alone. Unarmed. Hands raised in surrender or peace or both.
He looks exhausted. Dirt streaks his clothes. His boots are worn through at the heels. Dark circles shadow his eyes. This wolf has been traveling hard.
"Don't attack," he says quickly, words tumbling out. "I'm not with Varek. I'm looking for Sorin's mate. Are you Arida?"
My knife is out before he finishes. Every muscle coiled to strike. "Who's asking?"
"My name is Thorne." He keeps his hands visible. "I'm from the River Stone pack. Three territories east of here."
"Long way from home."
"Hardik sent me to find you. Alive or dead."
The name steals my breath for half a second.
"Hardik is alive?"
"Yes. He survived the coup. Barely." Thorne's eyes flick to Riven, taking in his obvious injuries and pale complexion. "He's gathering loyalists in the northern foothills. Building a resistance against Varek."
My mind races. Hardik alive changes everything. But this could also be an elaborate trap. Varek is many things. Stupid isn't one of them.
"How do I know you're telling the truth?" My grip tightens on the knife. "How do I know Varek didn't send you to finish what his men started?"
"You don't," Thorne admits. "But if Varek wanted you dead, he'd send warriors, not a lone wolf from a neutral pack."
"Maybe he's getting creative."
"Maybe." Thorne shifts his weight. "But I'm standing here unarmed, telling you where Hardik is. If this was a trap, it's a really bad one."
"What proof do you have?"
"Hardik said if I found you alive, I should tell you something only he would know." Thorne's gaze doesn't waver. "He said Sorin carved him a wolf figurine when he was seven years old. Said it sits on a stone shelf in his quarters."
My breath catches.
No one outside the family would know that detail. Sorin made it as a gift. Spent weeks getting the ears right. The tail. The eyes. Hardik kept it even after Sorin became Alpha.
Behind me, Riven sways. Catches himself on a tree trunk. His breathing is labored now.
Thorne notices. "Your mate needs medical attention. That wound is infected. I can smell it from here."
"We're fine," I snap, but my eyes betray me as I glance at Riven.
"You're not fine. He's not fine." Thorne takes a careful step forward. "Let me help you. Let me take you to Hardik. He has healers, supplies, shelter."
My knife doesn't waver. "Or you lead us into an ambush and we both die."
"If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't be standing here talking. I'd have shot you with a bow from cover." Thorne's voice is steady, reasonable. "Arida, Hardik believes you're the key to taking back the pack. He needs you alive."
I stare at Thorne. Calculate odds. Risks. Probabilities.
Riven's breathing grows worse with each passing second. Each exhale sounds like tearing fabric. His skin has taken on a gray cast. The kind that precedes death.
Thorne stands there. Waiting. Hands still raised. Patient as stone.
My mind races through every possibility. Every angle. Every way this could go wrong.
Hardik alive means I'm not alone in wanting Varek dead.
Or it means Varek learned from his mistakes. Sending warriors didn't work. Sending assassins in the night didn't work. So now he sends someone with the right words. The right story. Someone who knows about Sorin's figurine because he tortured it out of a loyalist before killing them.
I study Thorne's face. The scar. The exhaustion. All of it could be real. All of it could be theater.
"You said Hardik sent you two days ago," I say.
"Yes."
"How did he know I'd run east?"
"He didn't. He sent scouts in every direction." Thorne's hands stay raised. Patient. "I'm the one who found you."
"Lucky."
"Lucky for you."
The answer comes too smooth. Too prepared. Or maybe I'm looking for reasons not to trust him because trusting anyone right now feels like suicide.
"Arida." Riven's voice is barely a whisper. Actually his this time. "We don't have time."