Chapter 17: Thorn Hunters and Thunders

  Evanora’s POV

  Not long after, I noticed Beta Kaden—badly wounded.

  I hadn’t paid much attention to his appearance earlier when he spoke, but now I saw it clearly. His left hand remained half-shifted, still in wolf form. Brown fur covered his forearm, and sharp claws extended where fingers should have been—claws capable of tearing through stone. He hadn’t fully recovered.

  Even so, he worked inside the medical tent, distributing healing equipment with steady focus.

  I gave him a brief glance, then moved on—searching the bodies for any signs of life.

  Zagan slowed beside me.

  “The bodies,” he said quietly. “I see thorns. In wolves?”

  “I see them too,” I replied. “Curious what they are.”

  Ylfa, who was handling the heavier corpses nearby, turned toward us.

  “Thorn Hunters,” she said. “That’s what they’re called. Created through forbidden blood-rites, they’re fallen wolves bound to their creator’s will.”

  “The creator?” Zagan asked.

  “Someone awakened an ancient curse,” Ylfa replied. “All signs point to Alpha Vuk. They’re animated by desert curses and decay magic—not instinct, not pack loyalty.”

  I crouched beside one of the corpses, studying the thick, barbed tail.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “The tails,” I said. “They’re different from normal werewolves.”

  Ylfa’s hazel eyes darkened.

  “Mark of Death,” she said. “Their tails drain life on contact. Bodies are left desiccated, as if the desert itself claimed them. No wound bleeds. No howl follows.”

  I gripped the corpse to shift it. The thorns bit into my palm—sharp, deliberate.

  “I’ll handle it,” Ylfa said.

  I watched her lift the body with her partially shifted grey hands and place it onto a stretcher.

  I glanced down at my own hands before helping with another.

  Useful.

  I’d remember the tails. And their thorns.

  We dragged the Thorn Hunters’ bodies away from the main encampment. Fallen warriors were protected beneath ritual tents—prepared for proper soul rites.

  Enemies were not afforded the same mercy.

  When we finished piling the Thorn Hunters together, the sand ghouls emerged.

  They rose silently, like starving ghosts drawn by rot and neglect. The stench of decay thickened as they closed in.

  Ylfa didn’t flinch.

  Neither did we.

  She motioned for us to step back—slow, quiet.

  We withdrew.

  One of the hunched creatures screeched, jagged teeth snapping together with an ear-piercing sound. I reacted on instinct—muscle tightening, senses sharpening—then steadied.

  Zagan and Ylfa held their ground without moving an inch.

  One more reminder of being powerless, I noted grimly.

  The ghouls circled the Thorn Hunters… then recoiled.

  They didn’t feed.

  “And?” I asked Ylfa.

  She watched them retreat.

  “Right. They won’t touch cursed flesh,” she said. “We’ll have to burn them.”

  “Extra work,” Zagan muttered as we began gathering wood.

  Flames rose soon after—devouring curse, bone, and thorn alike.

  ****

  The desert smelled different by morning—cleaner, sharper, no less dangerous. The sun pressed down hard enough that I took shelter beneath scattered rocks.

  Across the dunes, a pair of amber eyes met mine.

  Kaden stood with his wolf forearms still unshifted—fur dark against sand - burned skin, claws flexing as if the desert refused to release him.

  “What brings you here?” he asked.

  “I’m admiring the sand’s ferocity from a safe distance.”

  He handed me a blood pouch from Arabella’s coven.

  “The blood.”

  I drank as he spoke.

  “Casualties are piling up—wolves and vampires. The Sunstone Pack is struggling. Once they arrive, you and your master will be given rest.”

  “Struggling?” I asked, the taste flat in the heat.

  “They’re forest-born,” he said. “The desert isn’t for everyone.”

  “Not for everyone,” I agreed.

  Thunder rolled in the distance.

  Kaden smiled faintly. “Rain will come in a few days.”

  “Really?”

  “The sun rules until noon. Then clouds descend. The desert drinks.”

  His gaze softened, just briefly. “There’ll be flowers at the festival.”

  I raised a brow.

  “You have a soft spot for flowers, Faith?” he asked.

  “Not many,” I said. “Just a few—from where I came from.”

  “Which ones?”

  “The Blue Frozen Lotus. It blooms only in harsh winters.”

  “Harsh winters? A blue lotus?”

  A smile slipped free at the memory of my cold palace.

  He noticed.

  Thunder murmured again.

  “Someone is romancing a memory,” he said quietly.

  Then he turned when the call came—already moving back toward duty.