Page 223 of Harbinger

He grips my arm. “Don’t look.”

I nod.

He moves to the scion’s body. I drop beside the mother and her pup, unable to watch.

The pup is so small. His paws are too big for him. One of his ears flops, nearly covering the horn nub in front of it. He shivers, and I press a hand to his neck.

“Hey, little one,” I whisper.

A weight settles on my shoulder. The oscen’s claws are gentle as it folds its wings against its back. It tilts its head toward the pup.

“Yeah,” I say to the bird. “I know. I’ve got him.”

Satisfied, she rises in a flap of wings and lands on a nearby branch.

I slide my hand under the pup’s chest as slowly as I can, afraid I’ll spook him. He goes rigid, so I keep my voice low. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

I lift him.

He weighs nothing.

The pup presses his face into the crook of my elbow and begins to shake. I tuck him against me and stand up.

Bishop is rising from the guard’s body when I turn. His gloves are off, the silver vestiges on his skin flowing. There’s a wet darkness on his palm he hasn’t wiped away yet.

He looks at the pup in my arms. “Arden …”

But this isn’t up for debate. “His mother saved my life.”

“That’s a horned wolf.”

“His mother saved my life,” I repeat, voice breaking on the words. “She died for me. I can’t leave him here. I won’t.”

Bishop looks at me. Then at the pup. Before his eyes land on the wolf lying in the dirt like she’s gone to sleep.

He doesn’t argue again.

“Come on,” he says. “We need to check on your family.”

He wipes his hand on his cloak, then starts to pull his gloves back on, but he stops and looks at the back of his hand, just above the knuckle of his middle finger. A new line of silver is etching itself there. Just one line. Then a second crosses it, and a third, each tracing the shape of something I can’t quite see yet.

He yanks his glove back on. Leaning down, he picks up my sword. “Let’s go.”

The pup squirms against my ribs until I whisper, “Shhh, little one. No one will hurt you. I’m your mother now.” He settles instantly, nestling against my heart.

Bishop says nothing. Smarter every day.

We walk in silence until we near the lights of the outpost.

Conscripts rush toward us. We pause long enough for Bishop to direct them to the body in the woods. Then we continue on to the cottage, where my brother is feeding our siblings the antidote and explaining that his fiancée was an assassin.

It’s over.

For now.

I cuddle the pup against my chest, his fur soft against my skin.

“I want to go home,” I say to Bishop.