Fang of Silence

The knife went in below the ribs. Kael twisted twice before the body stopped twitching.

He pulled the blade free and let the wolf drop. Two more circled him in the drainage culvert, moonlight slicing through the grate above. Their eyes glowed yellow. Their teeth were out. They had not shifted fully. They wanted him to see their faces.

Kael knew both of them. Runners. Low-rank pack wolves who delivered messages and fetched meat. He had trained with them. He had shared fire with them.

Now they wanted him dead.

The first one came low, aiming for his knees. Kael sidestepped and drove his elbow into the wolf's temple. Bone cracked. The wolf went down hard but not dead. Kael did not have time to finish him. The second wolf was already airborne, claws extended, mouth open for his throat.

Kael caught the wolf's wrist. He twisted. The wolf screamed as the joint snapped. Kael used the momentum to slam the wolf's head against the concrete wall. The body went limp.

Three down. One dead. Two unconscious.

Kael leaned against the wall and tried to breathe. His left arm was broken. He could feel the bone grinding when he moved his fingers. The silver knife the first wolf had carried was still in his hand. Silver. In pack territory. That was execution-level offense.

Someone had sent these wolves. Someone had given them silver and told them where he would be.

The patrol route was supposed to be secret. Only the Alpha and the tactical officer knew the full rotation. Kael had not told anyone. Not Theron. Not Sera. Not even his mother.

Someone had sold him out.

He dragged the bodies into the shadows. The dead one went first—Kael grabbed his ankles and pulled. The wet scrape of fabric on concrete echoed off the walls. The unconscious ones he left where they fell. They would wake up with questions. He would have answers for them.

His broken arm throbbed. The silver in the wound burned. He could feel it spreading, slow poison working its way through his blood. He had maybe an hour before the fever hit.

He needed to get back to the compound. He needed to see the Alpha. He needed to—

A sound behind him. Footsteps. Soft. Deliberate.

Kael turned, knife ready.

Theron Cross stepped out of the shadows. His hands were up, palms open. His face was carefully neutral.

"Easy," Theron said. "It's just me."

Kael did not lower the knife.

"You're bleeding," Theron said. He nodded at Kael's arm. "That's silver. You need a healer."

"I need answers."

Theron looked at the bodies. His jaw tightened. "Three of them?"

"Four," Kael said. "One ran."

Theron's eyes narrowed. "You let one go?"

"I was busy not dying."

A pause. Theron stepped closer, crouched beside the unconscious wolves. He turned one over. His fingers brushed the wolf's neck, checking for a pulse. "These are pack wolves. Our wolves."

"I know what they are."

"This doesn't make sense." Theron stood. He wiped his hands on his pants. "Why would pack wolves attack you? You're the Silent Fang. You're one of us."

Kael said nothing.

Theron met his eyes. "Unless someone told them you weren't."

The words hung between them. Kael felt the weight of them. Theron was his training partner. His friend. The only wolf in the pack who had never lied to him.

Or so Kael had believed.

"You wrote the patrol schedule," Kael said.

Theron blinked. "What?"

"The schedule. You wrote it. You knew where I would be tonight."

Theron's face went pale. "Kael—"

"Don't."

"I didn't send them. You know I didn't."

Kael did not know anything anymore. The silver in his arm burned hotter. His vision was starting to blur at the edges. He had maybe forty minutes before he collapsed.

He had to choose.

Trust Theron. Or kill him now and ask questions later.

The knife felt heavy in his hand. Theron was not armed. He had come to help. He had come alone. That was either the move of an innocent man or the move of a traitor who knew Kael would be too weak to fight.

Kael looked at his friend. The man who had saved his life twice. The man who had stood beside him in every fight.

The man who wrote the schedule that put him in this culvert.

"I'm going to the Alpha," Kael said. He lowered the knife. "You're coming with me."

Theron nodded. "Good. That's good. Let's get you patched up first. You can't see the Alpha looking like this."

Kael started walking. Theron fell into step beside him.

Neither of them spoke.

Kael's arm screamed with every step. The silver was in his blood now. He could feel it moving, slow and cold, toward his heart. He had maybe thirty minutes before the fever took him.

Behind them, in the drainage culvert, the unconscious wolves started to stir.

Kael did not look back.

He made it twelve steps before Theron grabbed his shoulder.

"Wait," Theron said. His voice was different. Harder.

Kael turned.

Theron was looking at something on the ground. A glint of metal half-buried in the mud. He bent down and picked it up.

A silver bullet casing.

Fresh. Fired recently. From a human weapon.

"There's only one place in the valley where humans trade silver," Theron said. He held up the casing. "The Rusted Stag."

Kael stared at the casing. His mind raced. The Rusted Stag was neutral ground. No pack violence. No pack law. The owner shot first and asked never.

Someone from the pack had been there. Someone had bought silver bullets. Someone had paid three wolves to kill the Silent Fang.

And that someone knew the patrol schedule.

Kael looked at Theron. Theron looked at the casing.

Neither of them spoke.

The fever was getting worse. Kael could feel it now—heat spreading through his chest, sweat breaking out on his forehead. He had maybe twenty minutes before he lost consciousness.

He needed to make a decision.

Trust Theron. Or kill him.

The knife was still in his hand.

Would you trust the man who wrote the schedule that got you ambushed? Or would you put the knife in his throat before the fever takes you?