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Dani wipedher blade on the side of her cotton trousers. Sheathing it, she stretched her arms above her head as Armen and Moris returned through the forest. Their breaths were heavy, and their clothes clean of blood.

“Well?” she asked.

Moris shook his head. “They’re long gone.”

Graeson nodded, his jaw straining.

A problem for another day.

Bodies lie around them, dead. But beyond the blood on Dani and Graeson’s clothes, they had managed to come out unscathed. They were lucky. Whatever weapon the Frenzians had used during their attack in Pontia was nowhere to be seen tonight. If they had been equipped with that weapon, even Graeson would have had trouble defeating them.

Next time, they might not be as lucky.

Jaw clenched, Graeson pulled a black handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his blades clean.

The animal’s chain rattled, and a whimper followed. Graeson redirected his attention to the creature.

“Gray,” Dani whispered, her arms frozen above her head. “What do we do with it?”

Graeson looked at the creature and then at the others. “Why are you all looking at me?”

“I mean,” Moris said, rubbing the back of his head with a hand, “we are in this predicament because of you.”

Graeson sighed. Moris wasn’t wrong. If Graeson hadn’t moved, if he hadn’t made the first throw, they could have easily let things proceed as they may. But he hadn’t. He had acted. He would always fight to protect those who couldn’t defend themselves.

Graeson looked at each one of them. “Fine. Just don’t move, all right?”

The others nodded, and he stepped forward, hands low, head slightly dipped. While Graeson did not know what this creature was, he knew enough about wild animals to know that he did not want to appear threatening.

The moment the animal’s muscles went rigid, Graeson froze.

The animal’s wings were drawn tight to its sides. The creature had moved in the fight, and now the post that the chain was hooked to was between its two hind legs. Even if Graeson did manage to unhook the chain from the base without being trampled—which was a long shot—the creature would still have a chain hanging from its neck.

So, there was no other choice. He had to get up close if he wanted to set it free. Graeson took a careful step forward, and the animal’s lips rolled back, baring sharp, yellow teeth. Hot breath seeped from its throat.

Slowly, Graeson reached out a hand. Then, he waited.

Its nostrils twitched, and the animal sunk its head low. Its shoulders raised like a wolf would as it crept toward its prey.

Then, the creature straightened its wings. A warning.

Graeson remained steady, his hand out. He wasn’t easily threatened—although he couldn’t say the same for the other three Pontians if the rushed footsteps and twigs snapping were any indication. From the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that he saw Armen fall backward, hissing out a curse.

Graeson lowered his gaze and waited. He would let the animal come to him. His legs became tree trunks rooted in the dirt. He peered through his brows as his arm muscles strained, and he kept his hand steady.

The dragon-wolf slunk forward, its steps slow and calculated. One shoulder dropped as the other moved forward.

With even breaths, Graeson watched the animal approach. He knew the length of the chain after watching the wrangler show the creature off and noting the distance the man had maintained between him and the beast.

The beast was just out of reach now.

One more step.

The animal’s nostrils flared as it inhaled Graeson’s scent. Its lip curled, and its rancid breath hit Graeson in the face.

Still, he did not budge.

The creature’s ruby red glare slipped to Graeson’s scar on his face. Graeson had worn the scar all his life. He knew when people—or creatures, in this case—stared at the mark by the passing judgment and pity that flashed in their gazes. Many thought scars were a sign of weakness. But they weren’t to Graeson. The scar that ran from above his eyebrow down to his cheekbone was a reminder of where he came from and what he had survived.