Ch.11

She looked down at the fallen wolves, at the dark stains spreading on the forest floor. It was a grim tableau, a stark reminder of the constant struggle for life in this unforgiving wilderness. She felt no triumph, only a profound weariness, a heavy sadness for the lives that had been lost, both animal and, by extension, human.

 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Elara turned away from the struggling wolf and the fallen bodies. She needed to move. The sounds of this fight, the scent of blood, would undoubtedly attract other dangers. The Crimson Woods, even in its solitude, held many perils. She had survived this ambush, but the fight for her life, and for the memory of her lost kingdom, was far from over. The fading light of day was a stark reminder that darkness, both literal and figurative, was her constant companion. She needed to find a more secure place to rest, to tend to her own unseen wounds, and to continue her journey, a solitary shadow moving through the heart of the cursed woods. The metallic tang of blood still clung to the air, a grim souvenir of her passage.

 

The air, thick with the scent of pine and decaying leaves, now carried the acrid tang of fear and the metallic perfume of blood. Elara found herself back on her hands and knees, the rough bark of the oak a distant memory as the first of the rogue wolves launched its assault. This was not the coordinated, strategic attack of a disciplined pack; this was the desperate frenzy of outcasts, driven by primal hunger and the brutal realities of their existence. The largest of the three, its scarred muzzle a terrifying testament to past battles, lunged with a ferocity that seemed to ignite the very air around it.

Elara reacted on instinct, a lightning-fast sidestep that took her out of the direct path of its snapping jaws. The wolf’s momentum carried it past, its frustration manifesting in a low, guttural snarl that vibrated with raw aggression. Before it could fully recover, the other two wolves closed in, their movements a chaotic dance of snapping teeth and extended claws. They were a whirlwind of fur and fangs, their attacks less about strategy and more about overwhelming Elara with sheer, unbridled savagery.

 

This was a different kind of fight than she was used to. The disciplined hunts of the Silverwood pack, the calculated ambushes of human soldiers, all paled in comparison to this raw, untamed fury. These were creatures driven by a desperation that transcended mere predatory instinct. Their feral rage was a tangible force, a suffocating pressure that threatened to crush her. Elara felt a surge of her own lupine nature rising to meet the challenge, a primal instinct that whispered of equal ferocity, of a fight to the death.

 

She brought her dagger up, a gleaming arc of steel that met the snapping jaws of the wolf to her left. The impact was jarring, the sound of steel scraping against bone echoing in the sudden stillness. The wolf yelped, recoiling with a deep gash across its muzzle, blood blooming on its matted fur. But there was no hesitation, no pause for pain. The wound only seemed to enrage it further, its eyes burning with a renewed, desperate hunger.

 

The wolf on her right, a leaner, more sinewy creature, launched itself at her legs. Elara didn’t have time to fully evade. She dropped, her body rolling beneath the snapping teeth, the rough forest floor scraping against her skin. As she moved, she swept her dagger upwards, its edge catching the wolf’s flank with a sickening rip. The animal let out a choked gasp, its hindquarters giving way as it stumbled, a dark stream of blood pouring from the wound.

The largest wolf, having recovered from its initial missed lunge, saw its opportunity. It ignored its injured packmates, its focus solely on Elara. It didn’t charge directly, but circled, its movements a blur of predatory grace. Elara’s senses were on high alert, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She could feel its eyes on her, assessing, waiting for the slightest opening. The air thrummed with a dangerous tension, each rustle of leaves, each snap of a twig, a potential prelude to an attack.

 

She scrambled to her feet, her muscles screaming in protest. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale burning her lungs. She was outnumbered, outmatched in terms of raw power, but not in will. The memory of her lost kingdom, the faces of her fallen loved ones, flashed through her mind, fueling a fire within her that burned hotter than any fear. She would not fall here, not to these desperate creatures.

 

The large wolf launched its attack, a deceptively swift pounce aimed at her throat. Elara met it head-on, not with a parry, but with a brutal counter-offensive. As the wolf closed the distance, she lunged forward, her dagger held low, aiming for its unprotected underbelly. The steel sank deep, a gasp escaping the wolf as it recoiled, its charge faltering. It stumbled back, a guttural howl of pain ripping from its throat.

But this moment of respite was fleeting. The two injured wolves, their bodies bleeding, their movements impaired, still pressed their assault. The one with the gash on its muzzle lunged again, its eyes wild with a pain that fueled its aggression. Elara met its charge, her dagger a blur as she parried its snapping jaws and then drove the blade into its chest. The wolf staggered, its lifeblood staining the crimson soil, and then collapsed, a still heap of matted fur.

 

The third wolf, the one with the wounded flank, was still a threat. It moved with a limp, but its desperation had not waned. It let out a series of sharp, high-pitched barks, a call to its packmates, a desperate attempt to rally them. But its packmates were no longer a cohesive force. The largest wolf was still reeling from Elara’s counter-attack, its movements hampered by the wound she had inflicted. The third wolf, seeing the tide turning against them, its pack broken, its own injuries mounting, seemed to falter.