POV: Soraya
The Moonsand glitters like powdered silver beneath the high sun.
It should be beautiful. It isn’t.
Because Saren’s army is already there—lined in perfect formations across the shimmering plain, their banners raised, their warriors armored in polished bone-white plates that shine like teeth. It looks as if they were waiting for us, expecting the moment we crested the Red Basin dunes.
Kaide curses under his breath.
“They knew,” he mutters. “They knew exactly when we were coming.”
Of course they did.
Zarek always knows.
My stomach tightens as our army spreads across the opposite half of the Moonsand. Zehrael takes the vanguard, their silver armor reflecting the light like a tide of stars. Ashra forms a towering second line, dark and sharp, shadows waiting behind the moonlight.
Vienne and her group rush past me carrying satchels of herbs and water skins. The healers’ tents are being erected behind a dune ridge—far enough from the clash, but close enough to haul the wounded.
Raevan rides up beside me, his presence a storm I’ve grown too used to sensing.
“Stay with the healers,” he orders quietly.
I shoot him a look.
“You don’t command me.”
He exhales, the sound tight.
“I’m not trying to command you. I’m trying to keep you alive.”
I grip the reins harder to keep from trembling.
“I’ll be alive. We’re fighting for Zehrael and Ashra today. Not for your fears.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t argue. He knows better. He knows I never once backed down from a blade, even when I should have.
Across the battlefield, a single horn blares—long, deep, a sound like the earth splitting open.
Saren.
Zarek stands at the front, dressed in obsidian armor traced with molten gold patterns. His wolf pelt lies draped over one shoulder, a symbol of victory he didn’t earn. His soldiers howl behind him, an ugly sound that twists my stomach.
Kaide rises in his saddle.
“Archers ready!” he shouts.
Zehrael bows their heads, murmuring the old moon-blessings. Ashra unsheathes blades that gleam blue in the sunlight.
My heart thunders so hard I swear the warriors on either side can hear it.
I ride forward, toward the healer line, where Vienne and her team set out rolls of linen and jars of salve. Tazir runs by, tapping my shoulder once—silent encouragement—before rushing back to the front.
Ashra wolves shift into their battle forms, shadows stretching, bones cracking, fur bursting through skin. Zehrael wolves follow, their transformations filled with silver radiance. The air thickens with magic, heat, tension, fear, hope.
Kaide lifts his blade.
“On Soraya’s command!”
I swallow.
I glance up at the sky—the sun blazing, the curve of noon approaching like a blade.
I raise my hand.
“Zehrael,” I whisper. “For home.”
My hand drops.
The battlefield erupts.
Wolves surge forward, kicking up geysers of Moonsand. Arrows slice overhead like a swarm of metal insects. Saren’s warriors charge with shields locked, spears angled toward our advancing front.
The sound is deafening—screams, roars, metal clashing, bodies slamming into bodies.
Vienne grabs my arm suddenly.
“First wave coming in!”
I whirl toward the dune where we’ve set the healer tents.
The wounded arrive like a flood.
An Ashra wolf collapses at my feet with a broken leg and a spear lodged in his side. Blood pools beneath him, soaking the sand. I kneel immediately, hands hovering above the wound. The heat of magic coils inside my palms before I even focus.
He groans.
“Stay still,” I whisper. “You’ll be fine.”
Light bursts from my hands—white, then silver, then a shimmering blue that dances over the torn flesh. The spear pushes itself out as the wound stitches closed.
The wolf gasps.
“You’re—Zehrael? Truly?”
“Rest,” I tell him. “You’ll be back on your feet soon.”
More wolves stumble in—Zehrael, Ashra, some half-shifted, others still fully human with cuts, burns, arrows embedded in armor. The healers rush among them. My powers whirl like a storm inside my veins, ready to spill out with each touch.
A young Zehrael warrior stumbles toward me, blood streaming from his chest.
“Luna—help—”
He collapses before I can reach him.
I slide my arms beneath his shoulders, lift him enough to ease his breathing, and press my hands to the wound. Light floods from my skin like water from a cracked jar. His breath steadies. His wound closes. His skin returns to color.
“Stand,” I murmur.
He rises, eyes shining with gratitude.
“Thank you, Luna.”
But I hardly hear him because—
A blast of fire erupts in the distance, followed by screams.
Zarek’s mages.
Damn it.
I rise, ready to run forward, but Vienne grabs my wrist.
“Where are you going?!”
“To help—”
“You are helping, Soraya!” she snaps. “If you leave, half of these wolves will die because no healer can replace you!”
I freeze.
She’s right.
She’s right and it hurts because every instinct in me wants to be on the front line, fighting shoulder to shoulder with Kaide and Raevan, tearing down Saren with my own claws.
But my powers…
They belong here.
I kneel beside another wounded wolf—a girl younger than me—with an arrow piercing her shoulder.
As I heal her, the battlefield noise swells again—a horrible crescendo. I look up just in time to see Raevan’s massive black wolf tear into Saren’s lines with violent precision. Kaide fights beside him, blade flashing.
Zarek stands unmoving, watching the carnage with amusement.
My blood boils.
I turn back to my patient.
“Hold still,” I whisper.
Silver light rains from my hands again.
Moonsand gleams beneath the blood.
The war has begun.
And I am its healer, its storm, its unforgiving moon.