Chapter 26 - Echoes of the Pack
The corrupted druid raised his staff, voice cutting through the silence with a low, resonant chant. At his side, the direwolf bared its teeth, growl deepening as if it were echoing its master’s power. Behind him, three elves stepped into formation: a fighter with shield and longsword, a ranger with his bow already half-drawn, and a barbarian whose sheer size dwarfed the others. Their presence was different from the cultists who had fallen minutes ago. These were no peasants in robes. They carried the bearing of soldiers. And the leader, most of all, moved with the calm arrogance of someone born into nobility.
Jordan pulled the flask from her hip. The liquid burned down her throat, sharper than fire, and when she lowered it, her eyes gleamed with a wild light. She exhaled once, her stance shifting, her energy snapping taut like a drawn bowstring. “Guess we’re not dealing with farmers anymore,” she said, voice low, almost eager.
Finn gripped his staff, tone steady. “Pick your targets. I’ll keep the beast busy.”
Elarion’s blades slid free of their sheaths, his gaze locked on the fighter and ranger. “Then let’s finish this.”
The corrupted druid slammed his staff into the ground. The stones shuddered, the direwolf’s growl turned into a snarl, and the battlefield erupted.
Jordan launched herself at the barbarian. His battleaxe swung with terrifying force, gouging deep rents into the earth where she had stood a heartbeat before. She ducked low, fists slamming into his ribs, elbow cracking into his jaw. He roared and lashed out again, but she was already gone, moving faster than his rage-filled eyes could follow.
Elarion met the fighter in a clash of steel, sparks flying as their swords rang together. The ranger circled wide, loosing arrows whenever he caught a sliver of an opening, forcing Elarion to split his focus between blade and dodge. His movements grew sharper, angrier, each strike carrying more heat, as though every clash of metal only stoked the fire burning inside him.
With a guttural growl, Finn’s body rippled and twisted, fur exploding outward as he shifted into the muscled form of a tiger. He met the corrupted direwolf head-on, the two beasts colliding with earth-shaking force. Claws raked, fangs snapped, their snarls echoing like thunder through the stones.
The battle raged, each trio locked against their foe. Then, in a single brutal moment, the barbarian’s backhand caught Jordan square across the ribs. The blow lifted her off her feet and sent her crashing into one of the ancient stones. The sound was sickening. Flesh against stone, air wrenched from lungs. She crumpled to the ground, her flask rolling from her hand.
“Jordan!” Finn’s tiger form shimmered and melted away. In a breath he was half-elf again, sprinting to her side. He pressed his glowing hand against her chest, green light surging through her body. Air flooded back into her lungs, the agony dulling at once. “On your feet,” he ordered, already shifting his stance.
Jordan staggered upright, her chest rising and falling with sharp, furious breaths. She bent, snatched her flask from the ground, and emptied the last burning drop down her throat. When she lowered it, there was no hesitation in her eyes, only fury. She launched herself at the barbarian again. His axe swung in wide arcs, rage lending him strength but stealing his precision. She ducked beneath one, spun past another, her fists raining into his ribs, jaw, temple. He grunted, enraged, his swings growing more desperate.
Just as he drew back for another massive blow, his muscles coiled for a strike that could have cleaved her in two, Jordan grinned. And then she was gone. She has mastered the technique of using her ki to turn herself invisible, and what better time to use it than right now. The barbarian blinked, confused. He turned left, then right, eyes darting, chest heaving. The empty air offered nothing but the sound of his own breath.
And then she was there, behind him.
Jordan reappeared in a blur, her fists a storm of violence. She struck the sides of his neck, again and again, each blow precise, each one designed to rupture what lay beneath the skin. The barbarian gagged, his weapon slipping from his hands. She slammed her elbow into the base of his skull, her palm into his throat, a final flurry that stole every last breath from him.
He staggered forward once, twice, then collapsed like a felled tree. His body hit the earth with a bone-shaking thud. The axe landed beside him with a ringing clang. Jordan stood over him, chest heaving, blood on her knuckles. She exhaled slowly, the wild grin fading into something colder.
But the battle was far from over.
Steel clashed as Elarion met the fighter head-on. Their swords moved in quick succession, a storm of strikes and counters. The fighter was fast, his blade precise, his shield a wall that turned aside most attacks. But Elarion was faster. very swing met with the scrape of steel or the snap of air as Elarion slipped aside, his movements sharp and economical. His rage pressed at the edges of his focus, threatening to unmoor him, but he rode it like a cresting wave, channelling it into each motion. A feint to the left, a quick slash to the right. Sparks flew as his blade kissed steel again and again.
The fighter lunged, shield driving forward to unbalance him. Elarion let the blow skim past his shoulder, turned with it, and in the same motion drove both blades down in a crossed arc. Steel pierced flesh. The fighter staggered, mouth open in shock, before Elarion tore free and shoved him back. He crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Elarion exhaled hard, chest heaving, and for a heartbeat he felt the rush. The high of victory, the pulse of adrenaline, the sharp taste of battle washing over him. His lips curled into a faint, dangerous grin. There it was again, that battle high, where he felt almost… fun.
The hiss of an arrow split the moment. He twisted just in time, the shaft cutting a line across his cheek. The ranger stepped out of the shadows, bow drawn, eyes glowing faintly with fey light. There was something unearthly about him, as though the otherworld clung to his movements. He loosed another arrow, this one wreathed with shimmering energy, and Elarion barely rolled aside before it struck stone, bursting into radiant sparks.
No common archer. A Fey Wanderer.
The ranger pressed the attack, moving with uncanny grace, his steps light, almost silent even on the stone. Each arrow came faster than the last, infused with trickery, magic, and precision. Elarion wove between them, blades flashing to knock aside shafts that came too close, feet finding balance in the smallest spaces. It was a test not just of speed, but of mind.
He feigned a stumble, and the ranger seized the opening, releasing a pair of arrows at once. Elarion dropped low, blades crossing to deflect one, the other grazing his arm. Pain burned, but it sharpened him further. He pushed up from the crouch, closing the distance in a burst of speed. The ranger tried to fall back, hands flashing with another trick of fey magic; a shimmering duplicate of himself flickered into being, confusing the eye. Elarion narrowed his gaze, ignored the illusion, and lunged at the subtle shift of shadow where the true body moved. Steel bit flesh, shallow but real. The ranger hissed, eyes narrowing.
Their duel spiralled into a dance of strike and counter. The ranger drew his short blades now, arrows no longer fast enough, meeting Elarion with fey-enhanced agility. For every slash the ranger landed, Elarion met him with two, adapting, quick-thinking, pressing where he faltered. At one point, the ranger tried to vanish into the mist with a Fey Step, but Elarion was already moving, following the faint stir of air, the near-silent shift of grass. His instincts were sharper than sight.
The ranger pressed harder, each movement sharp with fey precision. Blades flashed in quick succession, forcing Elarion back step by step. His chest heaved, arms straining to match the speed. The ranger’s eyes glimmered with cold confidence; every strike punctuated with the certainty of victory. A feint, a twist, then a pair of blades aimed for Elarion’s chest. For a heartbeat, it looked certain. The ranger’s smirk widened, sure of the kill.
But Elarion moved. Faster than the eye could track. He slipped past the strike, closing the space in a blur. His sword carved cleanly across the ranger’s throat, precise and final.
Time seemed to slow. The glow in the ranger’s eyes dimmed as he staggered, disbelief flickering across his face. For Elarion, the moment stretched, the sensation of his blade cutting through flesh searing into his senses. The rush hit him hard. Adrenaline, rage, triumph all crashing together. His lips pulled into a wild grin. Almost before he could think, he drove his second blade deep into the ranger’s side. Steel slid between ribs, warmth spilling over his hand as blood gushed from the wound. He twisted slightly, savouring the visceral, undeniable proof of victory.
The ranger collapsed at his feet, lifeless.
Elarion stood over the body, chest heaving, eyes alight. The high coursed through him, sharper and stronger than before. It was intoxicating, dangerous, a taste of something he should not want but could not deny. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispered: this is starting to feel too good.
Finn’s second transformation came in a blur of snapping bone and rippling muscle. His form stretched larger, broader, fur erupting in a coarse grey coat. When he hit the ground on four massive paws, the air left his lungs in a low, rumbling growl. A direwolf now faced the corrupted beast across the shrine, eyes bright with natural cunning rather than twisted malice.
The corrupted wolf lunged first, saliva flying from its jaws. Finn met it head-on, teeth clashing with a metallic snap as fangs locked together. They tore apart, circling, hackles raised, their snarls filling the air. Where the corrupted wolf’s movements were jerky and wrong, Finn’s were fluid, precise, honed by instinct and discipline. He snapped at exposed limbs, ducked under lunges, drove his weight against his foe with the practiced rhythm of predator combat.
But the corrupted wolf was massive, bolstered by the unnatural power threaded through its veins. It fought with reckless brutality, claws raking deep, its bite crushing. Finn’s shoulder burned where its fangs tore through fur and flesh, and his growl turned sharp with pain. He lashed back, clamping his jaws around its throat, dragging it down for a moment before being thrown off with staggering force.
He landed hard, claws digging into the dirt, panting. The beast loomed over him, growling, dripping blood and bile. Finn readied himself for the next charge, and then another shape burst from the chaos. A wolf, smaller than Finn’s direwolf form, but sleek and swift, with eyes alight in a way he instantly knew. Elarion. Finn didn’t need words. He felt it in his bones, the spark of recognition, the resonance of pack that druids knew as deeply as their own heartbeat.
The corrupted direwolf lunged again, but now it faced two. Elarion darted low, snapping at the beast’s hind legs, forcing it to rear back. Finn leapt in from the other side, jaws closing on its exposed shoulder. The corrupted wolf twisted, but every time it turned to strike, one of them was already at its flank, nipping, tearing, driving it off balance.
They moved with perfect rhythm, as though they had fought together for years. Finn would lunge, and Elarion was already there, harrying from behind. Elarion feinted left, and Finn slammed into the beast’s side from the right. Their snarls rose in tandem, sharp and fierce, filling the shrine with the sound of true predators working in unison.
The corrupted wolf tried to rally, snapping wildly, its strength staggering, but pack tactics wore it down. Two against one. A rhythm it could not break. Finn’s fangs closed around its throat once more, dragging it low. Elarion darted in, teeth clamping onto its hind leg, yanking hard. The beast toppled, crashing onto its side with a thud that shook the earth.
Pinned beneath their combined weight, the corrupted wolf thrashed, snarled, then finally went still, its glowing eyes dimming to darkness. For a long moment, the shrine echoed with the sound of two wolves breathing hard, shoulders pressed together, blood dripping from their jaws. Then, in near unison, they shifted. Fur drawing back into skin, claws into hands, fangs into teeth. Finn rose to one knee, clutching his torn shoulder, already murmuring healing words under his breath as soft light steadied the bleeding. Elarion straightened, his chest rising and falling with the lingering rush of battle, eyes still darkened with the fire of his high.
Jordan appeared a heartbeat later, bloodied but unbroken, coming to stand with them at the centre of the stones. And there, waiting, staff planted firmly into the earth, the corrupted druid leader smiled.