Semua Bab The Wilder Games - Savage Surrender 1: Bab 11 - Bab 20

Silas Coilheart POVThe witch's scent is absolute torment, a mix of ripe berries and raw magic that claws at my senses. It's driving my serpent blood into a fucking frenzy. I coil in the shadows, hidden beneath a tangle of brambles, watching her tree perch high in the ancient oak.She's clever, this one. She uses cloaking spells, thorn barriers and arrows laced with witch fire. But no one outruns Silas Coilheart forever. I'll have her, break her, breed her, and leave her husk for the crows. My fangs drip venom at the thought, it sizzles as it hits the earth.Night blankets the Killground, the moon a thin sickle casting jagged shadows. I wait, patient as death. Her breathing slows, it's faint but steady, drifting from the high fork where she's curled. Asleep. Vulnerable. Perfect.My coils slither forward silently, my scales gliding over the moss like oil on water. The tree looms ahead, its bark scored from her climb. Her scent is the thickest at the base. I rear up, my humanoid torso r

Branwen POVDusk drapes itself over the trees like a damp cloak by the time we move. I take point because I said I would and because none of them argues. Sensible. The creek chatters to our right, gossiping over the stone. I keep my bare feet on rock whenever I can, letting the water chew our tracks to mush.“Ears open,” I murmur. “If you hear a bell, freeze.”Fenrick’s voice floats from my left, amused and quiet. “Yes, captain.”“Try not to enjoy that,” I shoot back, and feel his grin without looking.Nythor ghosts my right flank like a thought I haven’t had yet. Hadrian’s warmth anchors my back; even when he’s silent, he hums with sunlight and impatience.The gorge opens like a slit in the earth. A fallen pine makes a narrow bridge. It’s slick with spray and alive with the idea of murder.“Single file,” I say. “Light feet. No heroics. If you fall, tuck and roll; the bottom’s all teeth.”Hadrian inhales to object, of course, and I cut him a look over my shoulder that says don’t make

Branwen POV The forest wakes buzzing and nosy. Pine sap sweetens the chill, the creek gossips to stones, and through the trees a three-note chime drifts, patient as a cat tapping glass.Parley.I push up on an elbow. Nythor is already upright, his white hair a pale flag in the dim. Fenrick stretches like a sinner after a good sermon, smirking at nothing. Hadrian keeps his post on the ridge, all golden statue and stubborn, watching the dark between trunks like he plans to marry it.“Panther’s still ringing,” I mutter, scrubbing sleep from my eyes.Nythor tilts his head, listening. “Quarter hour. Metronomic.”“Persistent bastard,” Fenrick says fondly, like he’s talking about himself.We inventory what’s left: two ration bricks, a strip of dried fish, four hazelnuts I count like coins, and enough water to make the bricks less like despair. I smear wildmint along my throat and wrists, renew the scent mask, then crouch by our thorn curtain.“Stay calm,” I whisper to the hedge. My hush spe

Branwen POVHadrian leads. The rest of us fall in behind him, silent except for the crunch of leaves under our boots. The forest smells like rain and smoke, and it's heavy with tension. Zarrk moves just behind Hadrian, every step quiet and deliberate. Fenrick keeps the left side, Nythor the right. I stay in the middle, with my bow ready, and magic humming under my skin.We travel fast through the trees, the ground uneven and slick with moss. The air is thick and still, like it’s holding its breath. I can feel the wards in the air, faint and sharp like static.Hadrian raises his hand and we stop. “Trap,” he says quietly.I squint ahead. Two thin silver wires glint between the trees. Easy to miss if you don’t know where to look.Zarrk crouches, his eyes flashing gold. “Serpent make. Trip it and you’ll get a face full of venom gas.”I wave a hand and whisper a spell. The air bends around the wires, and the trap dissolves in a quiet shimmer. “Not today,” I mutter.Hadrian looks over his s

Hadrian POVThe sun bleeds low, the gold sinking into the trees as if the Wilds are swallowing the day whole. We’ve been running for hours, and the land ahead opens into a rise thick with oaks and dark brush. I can feel it, the pull of safety, the hum of ground that listens.“This’ll do,” I say, my voice rough. “High ground, narrow access, good sightlines.”Branwen steps beside me, her chest still heaving from the run. Her dark curls cling to her temples, wild and damp, her eyes alive even in the dimming light. She looks around once, scanning like a soldier, then nods.“Fine choice, Lion,” she says. “You’re learning.”I huff a quiet laugh. “You say that like I wasn’t born for strategy.”“You were born to roar,” she shoots back, grinning. “But I’ll allow both.”Zarrk slinks out of the shadows behind her, smooth and unbothered, like he hasn’t been following her scent all afternoon. “I’ll check the perimeter,” he says. “Traps and wards need setting before dark.”Branwen’s eyes flick towa