CHAPTER 243: PROVE YOURSELF

Rymora moved swiftly, her boots crunching over scorched earth and trampled grass. The coppery tang of blood clung to the air. She scoured the battlefield, scanning the fallen until she found clothes—bloodstained but usable. Without hesitation, she stripped a dead guard, pulling on the garments, the sticky fabric clinging to her skin. Then she returned to Aira’s side, the stench of ash and charred flesh rising around them.

What she saw startled her. Aira was crouched low, furiously striking stones together, the sound of clack and scrape echoing in the dead silence. Sparks leapt and died on the dry ground. Her hair clung to her damp temples, her face pale but fierce.

"I won’t feel relieved until the Zygon is burnt to a crisp," Aira muttered, jaw tight. Her hands moved with mechanical urgency, using the most ancient of methods—stone on stone, coaxing embers the way even children were taught.

It took longer than she’d hoped, but at last a flicker of flame caught. Aira cupped it, her palms trembling, coaxing it with small breaths until a thin wisp of smoke became a glowing tongue of fire. The smell of singed earth curled upward. She fed it scraps until it roared to life. Without hesitation she hurled it onto the Zygon’s corpse.

Flames raced greedily across its grotesque body, blackening the hide, curling the claws like brittle paper. The stink of burning meat made Rymora’s stomach turn, but Aira’s lips twisted into a wild grin as she watched it burn.

"Moreover," she said to Rymora, voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and defiance, "how will we explain that I, someone with no offensive abilities, was able to kill a Zygon—and protect you at the same time?"

Rymora only nodded quietly, her golden eyes unreadable but glinting faintly in the firelight. Relief flickered there. Aira hadn’t recoiled—hadn’t treated her being a werewolf as something monstrous or unmanageable.

There was no way she could return to her pack yet, not even now that she had regained her connection to her wolf. She had a mission to finish first, and only then would she return. If Aira had chosen alarm instead of acceptance, Rymora might have been forced to kill her before help arrived—an act she dreaded even imagining.

They both sank down on the bloodstained ground. Aira focused inward, trying to summon what remained of her healing ability to mend her injured leg. The memory of the battle flashed across her mind—enough to make her flinch just recalling it. Around them, bodies littered the clearing, the air thick with iron and ash.

Her fists clenched until her knuckles whitened. If only she had been stronger, she thought bitterly. If only she had been powerful enough, she wouldn’t have needed others to die for her sake.

Rymora’s own memories were no less vivid. She couldn’t forget the ferocity of the fight or the way Aira had stepped into the fray, fierce and unyielding. She knew that was strong but it was the way she didn’t back down even though she had no weopon.

Aira could be so strong. Yet the awareness that she herself could fully transform into her wolf made something else flicker through her—a strange, irrepressible smile.

Even if she lived as a rogue, she thought, she wouldn’t have to constantly fear for her life anymore. It would no longer be so easy for the pack to find her and kill her. The longer she thought about it, the broader her smile became.

Aira noticed. She leaned over, poking her in the head with a finger. "What exactly are you smiling about?" she asked.

Rymora only shook her head, lips pressed together. She didn’t answer, but the truth wasn’t hidden. Aira could see it clearly—the lost look in her eyes, the way she stared at her own body with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. This was likely her first transformation into a wolf, and it showed in every trembling movement.

They didn’t have long to wait. Soon the distant clatter of wheels and hooves broke the heavy silence. One carriage after another barreled down the road, halting abruptly beside them.

Aira’s stomach tightened. She knew that if Rymora hadn’t transformed, the newcomers would find nothing but a wounded Zygon pretending to be her —and a dead Rymora on the ground.

Figures emerged from the carriages. Lord Virelle and Lord Noctare were the first, their expressions wary. Lord Drehk and Lord Lythari followed from the second carriage, cloaks of heavy velvet concealing their forms completely. Only their presence—the way they carried themselves—allowed Aira to recognize them.

"The king sent us here," Lady Lythari said sharply, eyes sweeping the battlefield. "Clearly, he was right... something happened" Her cold gaze locked on Aira. "You smell of blood. How do we know you’re not a Zygon pretending to be the king’s pet? Everyone else is dead except you two." Skepticism thickened her voice.

"We should just kill her and be done with it," Lord Virelle said bluntly, stepping closer. "The king will understand when we explain that a Zygon ate her." His tone carried no hint of care for the truth.

Lord Drehk and Lord Noctare remained silent, but Aira saw the glint in Noctare’s translucent red eyes. He wanted her gone as surely as Virelle did.

Behind her, Rymora stood rigid, head bowed. She didn’t dare raise her eyes—especially not to Lord Drehk. The last thing she wanted was to meet his gaze and turn into a blushing mess, drawing even more attention to herself.

"Still," Virelle pressed, "how can we bring you back unless you prove you’re not a monster?"

Aira tried to summon the faintest shimmer of her healing aura, the only magic she could manage in her battered state. Light flickered weakly in her palms. It wasn’t enough.

They stared at her, unimpressed.

"We have enough reason to believe that some Zygons can use magic like fire and ice," Virelle said. "Surely they can mimic what you just did as well."

His words stoked the embers of Aira’s anger. It only deepened her resolve to gain an offensive ability, no matter the cost—even if she had to give up an arm for it.

"So what?" she snapped, fixing her gaze squarely on him. "You’re just going to kill me?"

Virelle chuckled darkly, shaking his head. "Cutting off your limbs should be enough. You can always grow them back."

If looks could kill, Aira would have reduced him to ashes where he stood. Her glare burned with such intensity that even Virelle paused, momentarily impressed.

You’d better kill me first," she told him, voice low and dangerous, every word vibrating with restrained fury. "Because if you let me live, forget about ever leaving this behind. Even if I have to lick Zyren’s feet, I won’t rest until the same—or worse—is done to you."

Before the tension could escalate further, Drehk suddenly spoke. His voice rolled out deep and commanding, cutting through the air like a blade. Though he stood at the back, his sheer presence made him impossible to ignore.

"I’ll take them to the king," he said simply. "They can ride in my carriage."

Beside him, Lady Lythari’s head snapped around, eyes wide. "Lord Drehk!" she exclaimed, disbelief etched across her face.

He barely spared her a glance as he repeated himself, slower this time, each word deliberate. "I have no complaints about doing it. Neither should you." His gaze pinned Virelle, who had opened his mouth to protest but shut it again with a scowl.

Aira blinked in surprise at Drehk’s unexpected intervention. Behind her, Rymora lowered her head even further. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. No matter how she tried to steady it, it raced on, especially under the weight of Drehk’s intense gaze as he ushered them toward his carriage.

Doing her best not to blush redder than she already was.

"Lady Aira first," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for refusal.

Aira climbed in, her mind still spinning. Rymora followed, careful to keep her eyes down. Drehk entered after them, his cloak whispering across the carriage floor.

With Drehk already seated and the horses shifting restlessly outside, the others had no choice but to follow in their own carriage.

Lord Virelle and Lord Noctare climbed into the second carriage first, whispering low to one another. From the subtle tilt of their heads, lady Lythari could tell Noctare wasn’t responding aloud—he was communicating telepathically instead.

Lady Lythari stepped inside the carriage, a deep frown darkening her face as she quietly sat opposite them.

Her instincts screamed at her that something was desperately wrong. She could feel it like a chill running along her spine, a premonition she couldn’t ignore.

’Why would Lord Drehk who was cold and never seemed to care about anything suddenly speak like that for the human with red hair’ she thought wondering if she was a fool not to have supported Lady Vivian in her bid to get rid of her.

"Have I been too complacent?" She mumbled under her breath as she looked out the window even as the carriage rode faster than usual back to the castle.