More dragons come into the clearing, stomping past and sometimes through the jingoist to surround the male and his mate. They lower their heads and hiss through yellowed teeth.

Morgana thumps through the trees, her eyes glowing an otherworldly golden as she marches up to the dragon as if the battle were of no mind to her. She walks within inches of a jingoist and he doesn’t even look at her.

Cooky old coot. How’d she get here so fast? She glances up and winks, then lays her hand on the female.

I turn my attention back to the mage before me. But a snout closes over him, and his scream is cut off a moment later. I leap back, my heart pounding in my chest as the dragon ambles past with a burp.

Jace and Tim exchange wide-eyed glances.

“Let’s go,” I say.

I take a circular route, fighting tooth and claw to reach Morgana where she lay beside the dragon in a heap. She seems… she has less wrinkles but her skin is pale, almost blue.

The dragon remains still, but her breaths are even. she seems relaxed. Perhaps not healed, but it warms my chest to know she is alive.

Morgana groans as I pick her up, mumbling about dragons and mice. Jace and Tim hold off a pair of mages who fight with trailing vines and glowing pigs made of rock.

I look down and see her cane. I sigh. I use my foot to shoot it into the air and grab it while putting Morgana over my shoulder.

Tim and Jace work together to protect our retreat, and a few wolves materialize through the trees, taking down the odd jingoist who tries to stop us.

But the large male dragon and his friends give the mages something a bit more important to focus on, and most of the men are still trying to put out the flames that had spread to their tents.

More dragons come into the clearing, called by the male, who bites a trailing vine in half and sends one of the few remaining catapults into the jingoist and mages trying to bring him back under control.

Jace and Tim ghost behind me, but they sound almost louder than the dragons battling the jingoist behind me.

A soft keen sounds and I glance back from a small hill to peer through the trees. The female rises, and the male pushes his head into her, his trills battling with the cries of man and dragon. Winged dragons rise from further back, and I grin as the male and his mate lead the wingless from the clearing and into the woods and beyond.

As much as I hate death, the jingoist brought it upon themselves this night. I was just the catalyst to free the chains.

I lay Morgana in the inn where an older gentleman points. He leaves a moment later to show a Shifter where to lay a bleeding Were still in panther form. The elderly man directs the efforts of both healers and anyone who wishes to help in the chaotic battle to save their lives. The common area of the tavern was cleared for injured, and the moans and screams of those I led into battle tears at my heart.

I look for those I know, seeing the Shifter with the two-toned eyes. Hiphrate sees me watching and gets up from where he had just laid a Shifter who moans in pain as a healer puts pressure on a stab wound on her thigh.

“Hiphrate, how are they doing?” I ask softly.

He rubs his hands down his pants, leaving a streak of blood. He winces, seeming to realize he has a slice down his palm. I grab a cloth and alcohol. I splash the wound, then wrap it. He bows his head in thanks, his eyes and scent showing surprise. “Most returned, sire. But we lost ten Shifters and four Were.” His voice holds no emotion, and his face is set in stone even as his eyes glitter with unshed tears. I know the look of one trying not to fall apart.

Ten. Ten Shifters just freed who gave their life for us. For me. And four Were who followed me into battle, knowing the odds.

It could have been much worse. And because of them, tomorrow may be won.

But I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to punch something. Something preferably in grey robes or a purple cape.

“How many missing?” I ask.

“Five.”

I put a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look at me. “You did well. Thank you. I release you and all the Shifters here. Your debt is paid. If you wish to return to the Were village, I will arrange passage.”

His eyes meet mine and his jaw grows taught. His eyes flash and a low growl rumbles from his throat. “We are not here to pay a debt, Sire. We are here to help our king.”

I nod, clapping his shoulder. “Then let’s ensure these men and women live to fight another day.”

A scream comes, and my heart clenches. "Heather?" I whisper.

I jump a table, race around a woman holding a bloody rag to a throat, and fall to my knees beside a form thrashing on the ground, her hair bloody. A large gash in her forehead leaks into her hair and a healer works to shave around the wound to see the full extent.

I remember laying Morgana on a pallet and curse myself for forcing her to heal a dragon. If it were a choice between Heather and a dragon... there is no choice. Not with that.

Something quivers deep in my chest and Cynic balks against me for the first time in my memory. He screams and my chest feels like it cracks open as Cynic tries to crawl out.

STOP! I scream at him. I can't help her with you like this. CONTROL YOURSELF!

He wails, but stops trying to escape and I open my eyes to see mere moments have passed. I press my hand on Heather's forehead and chest, holding her down so the healer can finish shaving. The wound goes halfway up her head and I see pale skull through the hanging skin. A second helper forces a tea down her throat as my heart drops to my toes. Blood slicks her hair and streams to the floor.

She's losing too much blood. I sniff the wound, and the world spins.

Silver. The wound is silver. The last time I saw her she dashed into the forest. I thought she had made it back safely. I thought she was fine. I should've checked on her. Should've done something different.

She whimpers beneath me, shocking me from the haze, and I shout for Sir Rey. He materializes beside me. "Hold her," I say, not caring that it comes out a Command.

I run to where I laid Morgana, and see her just sitting upright, breathing heavily through her nose.

And then I see another. Flash. He grimaces as a healer presses on a wound near his heart that could've nicked the artery for certain death.

The world feels as if it's closing around me, but I suck in a breath through my teeth and lock my legs before they give beneath me. I draw on the assassin, letting his numbness flow through me, and a haze of clarity comes.

Morgana sits in front of me, but she... can she give anything more?

I stand above her, waiting until she glances up. "Heather is dying," I say.

Her eyes grow wide and she tries to stumble to her feet. A wail from a woman across the room meets my ears but I feel nothing but annoyance. She should be silent so the healers can converse without yelling over her shouts.

I catch Morgana before she falls. I lever her into my arms and step around Flash without glancing down at him. He will live for a while longer. Silver does not affect the Were as it does Shifters. Heather will die first.

I sit Morgana beside Heather. "Heal her," I Command.

She grimaces, but lays her hand on Heather's chest and the floral scent of flowers and something almost sickly sweet wafts from her. Her magic. She's showing everyone here that she is a mage. My mind works out how it can use that to my advantage.

Something in me fights. Fights to come to the forefront, to say this is our friend. Our pack.

Hmmm, yes. Pack should come first.

Heather stops fighting and goes still. For a moment I feel a pain deep in my chest, as if something had just been greatly lost despite the fact I have killed more than my fair share of Shifters. That is nothing new.

But I know. Deep inside, I know this is not me. This is a mask, a way I learned to cope. But the true me would want this Shifter to live, along with the rest who are in this building. It seems my goals have changed. Life is no longer about survival, but granting others continuing breath.

I lean forward, placing my fingers against Heather's neck to see if she yet lives. Morgana shivers down on her knees, drawing in huge gasps of air. I press against Heather's chest, pumping her heart for her as Morgana clutches her bloodstained tunic.

Something filters up, and I find words passing my lips. "Come on, Heather. Breathe!" I shout, my voice hoarse and raw.

She remains still, and something inside me breaks. I shove it deep, allowing numbness to overwhelm me and keep me standing against the grief threatening to bring me to my knees.

Being numb is easier.

I bow my head, a lone tear leaking from my eye and dropping to land on her forehead. "Take my strength," I whisper, Cynic speaking with me, for once me and him of one mind. "Take my life. Just please let her live," I beg the Allfather.

I kiss Heather's brow. Beast leaks from me, pooling around my feet and brushing against me with warm, featherlight tendrils.

Then Heather sucks in a breath. I jump, my nerves frayed and my heart empty of feeling, but somehow relief mixed with joy comes from my cold, dark heart.