As soon as the slaver left the tent, Olvar’s eyes found him, glare fixating. His attention went briefly to Gaea, clearly badly injured, but thankfully still alive. He could smell her blood in the air, stirring his temper further. As William pulled her against him, Olvar took a step forward with a growl. His hands clenched at his sides as he started forward, anger bubbling to the surface at the strike. Only a dagger stopped his forward progress.
He glanced back at Gemma with a frown, eyeing the bottle suspiciously. “Gemma, what is that?” he called back to her, but William answered the question for him. Poison. A poison potent to Rosenites, or those with Rosenite blood. “Don’t do it, William,” he growled lowly when the man tapped the tainted blade against her skin. He took a step forward, stopping when the older lycan shouted, believing it to be at him.
Olvar stiffened as arms wrapped around him, but Gemma’s flowery scent wafted up to him. “No!” he snarled as the dagger was buried in Gaea’s belly, his body trembling with rage. He jerked forward, but Gemma’s grip was strong. He could feel the tingling power of magic rushing into him from his back, supercharged by the rage of the half-Rosenite.
The werewolf’s breath caught in his throat, eyes filling in with a feral gold. He knew this rage, but it felt like something out of a dream. It rolled through him, pouring into every inch of his being. For the first time in his life, the wolf would feel the heat of the sun at its back.
Olvar groaned in agony as his muscles stretched and twisted, pulling at his bones to the very verge of breaking. His body rocked, spasming unnaturally as it changed from man to beast. It didn’t take as long as it did on new moons, likely because of the heavy magic backing it. The lupundra reared back, then threw himself forward as the transformation concluded, his claws biting into the earth. The surrounding slavers scattered, but they didn’t matter.
The wolf was only focused on one person. He threw himself forward with a roar of anger, William’s eyes wide with shock. “You can’t change at will!” the man argued, but the beast didn’t care. He fell upon the man with a snarl, only to be met by rising fangs. The slave master had taken the form of a black wolf, equal in size to Olvar, if not larger. His muzzle was dipped in silver, pelt speckled with age, but youthful ferocity remained.
Thick fur caught the first of William’s slashes, and Olvar had the advantage of having him more or less pinned down. He lifted his forearms to protect his throat from dangerous claws, but the fangs that found his flesh were unexpected. A solid strike with one paw left the black wolf’s face streaked with red, and he was released. Olvar backed up enough to gain space, then charged again to collide with William as he rose. The momentum carried the pair through the back of the slaver’s tent, ripping fabric accompanying the short, savage snarls.
The pair brawled, each taking their own fair share of hits. William was fast and aggressive, but repetitive, only ever targeting the head and shoulders. It kept Olvar on the defensive, but also left his lower half exposed. Age was to the young knight’s advantage, but this wasn’t a natural shift for him. He could feel his energy draining with every passing second. If he didn’t make his move soon, he would run out of steam. Wait for a pattern. Look for openings. Count strikes. One. Two. Three. Now.
Olvar dropped his defense, ducking low under William’s arms. Both claws raked up the inside of the older wolf’s legs. He felt a similar attack at his back as the black lycan howled in anger, hind legs collapsing. A sharp shoulder to the gut knocked the offender backward. Olvar went down on him with tooth and claw, landing blow after blow to his face, arms, chest, throat. Anywhere he could reach. Each slash was fueled by rage; raw savage power poured into every action.
The younger wolf pulled back an arm for another swipe, but paused when the shifter beneath him abruptly reverted to his human form. William’s face was a mess: nose broken, lip split, a huge gash from ear to cheekbone. The man grinned, a crimson grimace of bared teeth. “Dumb mutt,” he scoffed, blood bubbling at the back of his throat. “Kill me if you want. You’ll still never have her.” He spat the grungy saliva in his mouth into Olvar’s face, sparking the beast into action.
He bared his teeth. His jaws parted. They closed around the man’s head, and the wolf reveled in the panicked heartbeat in the man’s chest. One strong crunch was all it took, and the slaver went limp. The shifter dropped the body with a snort, turning slowly back to the others. His eyes fell on Gaea.
Starting forward, his body twisted as his rage gave way to fear, whimpering as he returned to his human form. He pulled himself the last few feet to Gaea, a hand covering the wound in her abdomen. “Gaea,” he whispered, voice trembling from exertion and barely audible over her cries. His other hand gently touched her hair, shaking with worry. “Gaea, what do I do?” His arms and shoulders were throbbing with open wounds, but the worst of his injuries were a bite to his forearm and two sets of uneven slashes across his back. He hardly seemed to care though. His focus was on Gaea. “What do I do??” he asked louder, voice desperate.
Her cries were dying though. Growing weaker. He pressed a hand against the stab wound, but the bleeding wasn’t the problem. The poison was killing her from the inside out. And there was nothing he could do. “Gaea, please…” He leaned his head down, their foreheads resting together. “Please forgive me.”
