8 Chapter 8 – Blood-Moon Ambush
“For now.”
Their eyes met.
By dawn, the remaining attackers had fled.
Not with her hands.
But the war was just beginning.
She shook her head.
He looked at her again.
“I’ve heard silence my whole life. But your voice… it stayed.”
Cyr pulled the trigger.
Something about her stillness made him sigh.
“They’re too fast,” he muttered. “Damn it-
“I need to hear it again.”
But with her *voice*.
He reached for her hand.
She pulled back, scrawled one word: *No.*
He stared at it.
“You saved me,” he said. “Not just tonight. Every day since you arrived.”
She signed: *You needed me.*
She placed a scroll on his desk.
“Get him!” one growled. “Take the prince alive!”
One silver syllable-sharp and ancient-cut through the chaos.
He exhaled. “You’re not just a servant. You’re a strategist.”
Breathless, he patted his chest. “I’m fine. You?”
He sat by the hearth, holding a torn piece of red cloth-taken from the arm of one of the assassins.
She shoved his chair toward an altar half-buried in snow, dragging him behind its stone base as arrows whistled past.
She hesitated.
The second buried itself in the trunk just inches from Eileen’s head.
“You *calmed* him,” Cyr murmured. “That wolf was mid-rage, and you-stopped it. With a word.”
More shapes moved in the woods.
“You remember the signal?” he murmured.
She tapped twice on the wheel rim. Yes.
Cyr’s eyes narrowed. “Someone inside.”
Then it happened.
“Impossible,” he said. “It’s a myth.”
Then: “What did you say?”
She didn’t nod-but she didn’t look away, either.
But he held on.
He didn’t speak-not until she reached for the bandage.
No demand.
“Ambush!” someone screamed.
By evening, the Citadel buzzed with panic and rumors.
“You… spoke.”
She wrote carefully: *My bloodline was forbidden. My voice can reach the core of
+5
4
Alpha minds.*
Cyr glanced at her. “You think I should go?”
The man crumpled.
She didn’t react.
She gave no reply-but her gloved hand rested a moment longer on his arm before they moved.
Or bounty hunters.
Cyr drew his pistol, aimed left-handed, fired.
Cyr sat slumped in his chair, face smeared with ash, eyes locked on the bloodied snow.
“Then who are you?”
“You could’ve run,” he said softly. “But you didn’t.”
He whispered, “I didn’t imagine it. I *heard* you.”
The attacker froze mid-swing. His eyes widened. His snarl melted into blank confusion.
She didn’t wait for orders.
“Then I’ll bleed alone.”
*Click.*
Her breath trembled.
Held it gently.
By twilight, the Blood-Moon rose-huge and crimson above the forest ridge. Bonfires lit the glade. Nobles in fur-lined cloaks gathered to witness the ancient hunt.
But inside Cyr’s chambers, the fire burned steadily.
Cyr scowled from his chair. “Let them burn their traditions.”
Silence fell.
The plan was simple.
He read the sentence. Once. Twice.
“That’s a lie.”
She didn’t answer.
Cyr’s chair jerked back as he tried to maneuver away. “Eileen-!”
She paused.
She looked away.
Just… warmth.
“Salanthir.”
And nodded.
Cyr’s guards scattered as shapes burst from the trees-were-alphas in blood-red armor, their eyes glowing yellow in the dark.
Then wrote: *No one important.*
And Eileen moved.
They’d enter the hunting grounds through a side path, visible only at the ceremonial clearing. Cyr would raise his torch, speak three words, and the illusion of control
would hold.
Missed.
Eileen crouched beside his chair, adjusting the hood of his cloak.
One attacker broke through the trees, charging straight for them, blade raised.
But plans were fragile things.
“Fine,” he growled. “But I’m not being paraded like a cripple.”
Her hand trembled.
His voice dropped. “I still do.”
Eileen knelt beside him, cleaning the shallow cut across his brow.
The first arrow struck a guard through the throat.
And outside, under the blood-red moon, the hunt had ended-
He looked at Eileen.
It was a schedule-originally sealed-now opened and tampered.
–
Cyr remained unseen behind the ridge, hidden in shadows.
“South-clan mercenaries. The price on my head just doubled.”
Cyr turned to her slowly.
She signed: *Silver speech.*
The blade came down.
He swallowed.
Eileen placed a folded cloak over his lap.
Cyr reached up, gently taking her wrist.
Empty.
“It’s political,” Varek warned. “Show weakness, and the rival packs will sense blood.”
They didn’t account for betrayal.
Her eyes scanned the treeline, calculating.
Then Cyr’s second shot found his heart.
“Later,” he growled. “We move.”
“Who told them where we’d be?”
“The festival is tradition,” Captain Varek said, voice hard. “The prince must preside, even if he can’t stand.”
