Chapter 197: Be The Fox
The square was an offensive house. Within minutes, twenty mbers of the Feral Convoy were nothing but broken husks in the dust. The husbands were moving like slaughterhouse machinery, their sanity fraying with every second she was missing.
Damien was about to lunge for a cowering Jackal, not the one who took her, but a scout, when a massive, heavy hand slamd onto his shoulder.
"Enough!" Voss roared. The wolf beastman, a living tank with amber eyes that glowed like forge fires, stood in the centre of the madness. His Weapon Manifestation flickered, a massive iron shield appearing in his hand to block a stray bolt of energy. He looked at Damien, then at Exile, who was currently trying to crush a stone building just because he thought she might be behind it.
"Look at yourselves!" Voss’s voice carried the weight of a true Alpha. "You’re losing the trail because you’re too busy painting the town red! If she’s gone, we need to move, not mourn!"
Voss stepped toward Exile, his strength manifesting as a calming, grounding aura. He grabbed the thrashing anaconda by the thick of its neck. "Exile! Look at ! You are a hunter, not a butcher! Find her scent or get out of the way!"
Exile hissed, his serpentine body coiling tightly, wild-eyed and nearly blind with rage. Voss did not release his grip until Exile’s violent movents slowed. Gradually, the killer instinct in Exile’s eyes faded, replaced by the focused intent of a tracker.
At the edge of the square,
Ivan stood still. The lion beastman, usually stoic, tilted his head and flared his nostrils. His elite team stood behind him, silent and unmoving.
"The wind is shifting," Ivan muttered, his voice low and dangerous.
Victor landed beside him, his frost-covered wings retracting. "Did you find it?"
Ivan didn’t answer at once. He walked to a narrow alley leading north. He knelt, pressing his hand to the dirt. The others gathered, air thick with tal and copper.
Even Damien cald, pulling shadows back, though his hands still shook.
"The Jackal’s space jump was sloppy," Ivan said, his golden eyes narrowing. "He was carrying too much weight. He leaked. Jasmine... and a hint of sothing sweet. Like a fox in the sun."
Exile let out a low, vibrating hum. He slled it too—the faint ghost of a scent beneath the stench of the dead Convoy. Exile’s gaze tracked the source as it wound toward the highest peak, where a hidden bunker sat nestled into the cliffside.
"They didn’t just take her to a leader," Ivan said, voice dropping. "They took her to the old mines. They’ll trade her tonight."
Victor’s hand tightened into a fist, fire and ice swirling in his palm until they ford a jagged, unstable spear of pure energy. "Then we don’t just kill them, we erase the mountain."
The pack moved as one, a silent, lethal shadow flowing out of the decimated town square. They were no longer the tattered caravan of survivors they had been that morning. They were a war party.
Miles away, in a cold, damp room slling of rusted iron and old grease, the violet light of a containnt field flickered.
Felicity woke up panting.
The air in the containnt cell was thick with the scent of damp earth and oxidised tal, a stagnant, heavy atmosphere that pressed against Felicity’s lungs. When her eyes snapped open, the first thing she felt was the cold. It wasn’t the clean, mountain chill of the Southern Highlands; it was the biting, artificial cold of a bunker buried deep beneath the earth.
She sat up with a gasp, her heart hamring against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers curling around the smooth, familiar surface of the cracked marble hanging from its cord. It was still there.
She was still her.
She reached out with her senses, her fox ears, hidden but straining—trying to find the anchor of her team, her pack. She searched for the nuclear heat of Victor, the heavy, comforting weight of Exile’s presence.
There was nothing.
The silence was absolute, a void that made her stomach churn. For the first ti in months, she was truly alone. She was surrounded by the scent of grease, old sweat, and a sharp, musky odour that she realised belonged to her captor.
My husband’s... the team... they must be tearing Kangaroo Valley apart, she thought, a shudder rippling through her fra. She could almost see Victor’s eyes turning that hollow, terrifying white. She could imagine Damien’s shadow-magic devouring the town. They were probably losing their minds, and that thought scared her almost as much as her current predicant. If she didn’t get back to them soon, there wouldn’t be a valley left to save.
She looked around the dim space. It was a makeshift cell in what looked like an old mining office. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by a single, flickering lantern. And there, leaning against the heavy iron door, was the Jackal.
He wasn’t a brute like Krux. He stood about 6’1
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