CHAPTER 82: GORGE OF THE FALLEN

In the heart of camp, lanterns hung over makeshift stretchers. Wounded werewolves groaned among heat-soaked blankets. A healer’s touch was practiced and tender, but there were too many injuries and not enough time—or magic—to heal them all.

A young pup, covered in blood and soot, looked up at Kieran. "Alpha... they took my mother..."

Kieran knelt, voice gentle but unyielding. "I swear I will bring her back or fall trying." He pressed a hand to the pup’s head. "Go with the healers."

He moved on.

Adrenaline waned as the gates of battle edged closer. Ahead waited no silvered sunrise—just the roar of things corrupt and brutal.

Battle began before midnight. Demon wolves struck from the treeline—fast, intelligent, coordinated—breaking the line with primal force. They emerged like nightmares, rifling through ranks with brutality born of dark art.

Werewolves responded with counterattacks, claws meeting claws, steel colliding with sorcery-slicked hide. The earth shook. Lanterns shattered. Ritual fires burned.

Kieran fought like a man possessed. His sword, bonded to his bloodline, burned silver-blue as he carved through the enemy, never resting. One demon reared at him, spine-mirrored blades protruding from its back. Kieran countered with a downward slash that severed spine and spine, sending the creature to collapse in shards of bone.

A howl from behind—another demon lunged, teeth glinting. Kieran spun, disrupted the strike, then drove his fist into its skull until it cracked like an eggshell.

Wolves rallied around him, driven by his presence. But every enemy brought another wave. One demon tore through the flank of his line, sending steel and fur flying.

Kieran’s eyes caught a silhouette—Alpha Corrin, one of the strongest there. He engaged a towering enemy made of smoke and shadow, vanquishing it with a thunderous silver roar—but took three claws to the chest in return. He staggered, collapsing against Kieran’s side.

Kieran roared, snatching Corrin’s fallen blade and continuing his onslaught. He cut down two more demons before helping Corrin to his feet. Corrin nodded. "We hold," Corrin said, voice grim.

Kieran pressed his jaw. "We do."

Blood and fire ballooned around them. A demon wolf tried to flank Kieran, but he caught it by the throat, ripped the head free, and tossed it aside.

Dawn approached, though hope was scarce. The ground was soaked in gore, tinder smoke everywhere. Worse, the demon wolves retreated in ranks—cleverly disciplined, not broken.

Kieran sank against a broken stone pillar, breathing heavily. He counted them—still over thirty demons remained, each a walking ruin of death magic. His own forces were battered—many broken, some irretrievably lost.

A captain approached. "We’ve taken heavy losses. The packs from the east—Alpha Coran’s—aren’t coming. Their borders were violated—they needed to defend home."

Kieran’s jaw twitched. "They abandoned us."

The captain lowered his head. "They’re afraid."

Kieran closed his eyes. Rage threatened to consume him. "We need a plan." His voice was low, steady—leadership forged under agony. "A war of attrition isn’t enough. We have to push them toward the gorge, where the portal’s magic resonates. If they step into it... they could be bound or driven off."

The captain looked doubtful. The terrain was slippery with charcoal and blood. But the gorge had natural choke points—ancient stone walls carved by ancestors. If they could lure the demons there...

He nodded. "Tell the healers to ready embers and cold steel traps."

Kieran rose, pain flashing in his eyes. He turned to the watchers gathered atop rubble. "This might break us—or save us. But we have no other option."

Kieran’s mind flickered to Athena. He remembered her first howl as she shifted—stunning power, a surge of light. He’d believed she was next to him when the portal opened—but she wasn’t. She’d stayed behind to fight in another world’s war. And now, here, their war was tearing them alive.

He clenched his fists. For her. For this world.

The lures were set, torches lit along the gorge’s edge, tripwire and pit traps concealed beneath ash. Kieran repositioned his forces into ambush lines—Claws over the ridge, archers hidden, silvered men poised at bottlenecks.

"Remember," he whispered to Corrin. "When they come, hold until we push. Breathe."

A lull settled. A dozen demon wolves patrolled near the valley’s lip. Their snouts were caked black, eyes feral with hunger. They were scouts—testing, probing.

A tremor, like distant thunder—the rest of the demon pack emerged over the ridge. Silent until the last moment—and then the valley erupted.

Javelins flew, arrows thundered, silver claws clashed on corrupted fur. The gorge became a funnel into death.

Kieran let out a roar and charged, sword blazing. Demon wolves snapped and snarled—but the execution was chaotic on their side. The gorge held them back.

Light flares erupted where werewolves struck, ancient runes blazing against demon hide. Even the beasts recoiled when silvered weapons bit into bone.

Still, numbers turned the tide. A large demon, larger than the edge of the dawn, broke through a trap and lunged at Kieran.

He backed up, sword slicing open its flank—but it barely slowed.

Kieran felt claws rake his side, ripping through armor. He grunted, fire rising in him—then another voice rose with him: the roar of his people, rallying in belief.

Silver Claws combined with the embers at the camps below drew the rest of his ranks into the gorge, closing the trap.

The demon wolf he faced stumbled, staggered. Kieran’s blade flashed in a perfect arc and struck true.

The beast snarled—unholy—and twisted toward Kieran, dripping dark ichor.

Then five more wolves, alpha-ranked, glinted at Kieran with deadly intent. They’d come for him.

Kieran’s heart raced. The gorge could hold them—but not for long. If he fell...

He held his blade high, piercing the air. "Hold! Do not break!" Bellowed like siege steel. "Make them remember who we are!"

Claws flew. Teeth gleamed silver. Kieran met each strike, parrying, thrusting, fighting to drive every demon wolf backward, dropping them with bone-shattering finality.

When the final beast collapsed, Kieran was bloodied and broken—but still standing as dawn cracked the sky.

The demon wolves turned and retreated—that much was clear. They were smart. They didn’t fight to the last. But they withdrew in ranks—not fleeing.

Kieran drew in breath, every muscle screaming. He glanced down the gorge. Scars covered the walls. Broken bodies lay still. A bitter alliance of wolves clasped swords and returned cry of victory and grief in the same breath.

He sank to his knees, drained. Fury twisted into deep sorrow. Victory tasted like ash.

He had won tonight—but the war was far from over.