Fauna's POV
As the adrenaline began to drain from my veins, the pain came crashing down on me like a real monster.
The silver burn on my right calf gnawed at my flesh as if it were a living fire. But worse than the physical agony was the sight of Jason lying beside me on the arena sand, gasping for breath.
"Jason…" I whispered.
My voice cracked like parched earth.
The claw marks across his chest were still smoking. The silver's scorching touch had stained his skin a sickening shade of blackened red.
"I'm fine," Jason said—but his voice came from so deep within his chest that the words sounded dragged out against his will.
The deathly pallor on his face told a different story.
I felt Lunaire whimper restlessly inside me. I couldn't tell whether she was crying out for our own pain—or for Jason's helpless state.
The applause in the stands hadn't stopped.
Those blood-hungry rich humans…
For them, this was nothing more than afternoon entertainment.
But when I looked toward the witches' side, I saw something else entirely—pure rage. Especially in Mortia's eyes. The wolves she had intended to sacrifice had taken the life of one of her prized creations. Her display of power had been cut short. Her authority shaken.
When the cold voice of the arena guard announced the end of the match, we were dragged off the field without ceremony.
Two emotions twisted inside my mind:
A fury I could barely contain—and the gnawing realization that this war would be far harder than I had ever imagined.
Jason was fading fast.
The imposing, powerful boy who had stood tall in the arena moments ago now seemed to shrink before my eyes.
"Fauna!"
My father's commanding voice snapped me back to reality. The horror in his eyes was unmistakable.
"How are you? Your wounds are still burning. We need to get you to the healer immediately!"
Then his gaze shifted to Jason.
The hopeless resignation in his expression scorched my chest. A silver wound was a death sentence for a wolf—there was little even the healers could do.
"No," I said.
My voice came out sharper, louder than intended.
My father glared at me. Then he shook his head slowly, as if he already understood what I was about to do.
"No, Fauna. It's too dangerous. You'll expose yourself."
They loaded us onto the back of a rattling cart, heading toward the healer's camp.
"No one will see," I hissed through clenched teeth.
"And even if he's going to die—he shouldn't die in agony. He saved my life in the arena. If he hadn't come at the last second—"
I couldn't finish the sentence.
I placed my hand over Jason's blood-soaked wounds. The moment my fingers touched the darkened flesh scorched by silver, his eyes fluttered open.
"Fauna…" he murmured.
Despite his massive frame, his voice was pitifully weak.
I closed my eyes.
Even as my own wounds burned like embers, I allowed Jason's pain to pour into my body. I felt the golden threads slip from my fingertips into his flesh. I kept going until exhaustion and agony swallowed my mind whole.
⸻
When I came to, I felt unbearably weak.
The pain in my calf had eased—but it hadn't disappeared completely.
Good, I thought.
If it healed fully, it would raise suspicion.
My eyes immediately searched the room for Jason.
My mother rushed toward me, her eyes red from crying, a wide smile breaking across her face as she wrapped me in a tight embrace.
"Where's Jason?" I asked. "Where's my father?"
"They're fine, Fauna," Selene whispered.
"Your father pulled you away before you could heal Jason completely. The healer says his condition is stable despite the silver wound. He just needs rest—and time to purge the silver from his body."
She squeezed my hand, her fingers trembling.
"But your condition is worse than your injury should allow. Please, Fauna… don't do this again. No matter who it is. This power is consuming you."
She couldn't finish her sentence.
A sharp knock struck the door.
The Arena Master stood in the doorway.
His presence froze the air instantly. His expression was hard and cold—but beneath it was something I couldn't quite name. Something disturbingly familiar.
"How are you?" he asked flatly.
"Silver doesn't heal easily," I replied.
"And it burns."
There wasn't a single spark of life in his eyes.
"You'd better recover quickly," he said.
"Mortia wants a reckoning match. And the spectators are willing to pour fortunes into seeing it."
Rage surged through me.
"I am not your circus animal," I snapped.
"None of us are."
For the first time, I thought I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Anger? Or something deeper—I couldn't tell.
"Enough," he said coldly.
"I won't tolerate further insolence. Heal quickly. Do what you must—for yourself and for your pack. Or you will all face the consequences."
"Traitor," I hissed.
I wanted to tear out his throat with my teeth. He had once stood on our side—our blood, our kin. Now he was nothing more than the witches' leashed hound.
His hand moved instantly to the silver whip at his belt.
"One more word," he warned,
"and your loved ones will pay the price."
He turned and left.
As he walked away, I felt his gaze tear through my mother like a blade.
A heavy knot lodged itself in my throat. I couldn't swallow. The tears came whether I wanted them to or not.
This was only a preview.
A fragment of what this war was going to cost me.