Chapter 2

I woke to the sound of scraping. *Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.*

It was a rhythmic, hypnotic sound. The pain in my leg was gone, replaced by a dull, distant throb. The birch tea was still working its magic, making my limbs feel heavy and pleasant, like I was floating in warm water.

I rolled my head to the side.

Vera was sitting at a massive worktable made from the shoulder blade of a mammoth. The table was cluttered with silver chisels, fine brushes, and pots of black ink.

She was holding something small. A finger bone.

"You're awake," she said without looking up. Her voice was soft, melodic. "Just in time. They are at the perimeter."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "The hunters? Here?" I tried to sit up, but my body felt sluggish. "I need a weapon. Do you have a knife?"

"I have many knives," Vera said, lifting a delicate, silver-tipped tool. "But they are for creating, not destroying."

"You don't understand," I pleaded, panic cutting through the drug-haze. "They’ll kill me. They’ll kill you for harboring me."

"Watch," she commanded gently.

She dipped the silver tip into the ink pot. She brought it to the knuckle of the finger bone she held. With the precision of a surgeon, she began to carve a rune into the calcium.

"Magic," she explained, her tone conversational, "is simply the art of connection. Sympathy. Like calls to like."

She finished the rune. It glowed faintly—a sick, pale green light.

Outside, above the roar of the wind, I heard a howl. It was close. Too close. It was Silas, the pack’s lead tracker. I knew that voice. It was the voice of the man whose brother I had left behind in the ambush.

Vera held the bone up to the candlelight. She inspected her work.

"A clean line," she murmured. "It demands a clean break."

She took the finger bone between her thumb and forefinger. And she snapped it.

*Crack.*

The sound was small inside the room.

Outside, the howl cut off into a gargled scream of agony. Then, silence.

I stared at her. "What did you do?"

"The phalanges are so delicate," Vera mused, setting the broken pieces aside and picking up a new bone—a metatarsal. "A wolf needs his feet to run, doesn't he?"

She began to carve again. Faster this time.

Another howl outside. This one was Kaelen.

Vera hummed a lullaby as she worked. She carved a spiral into the foot bone. She blew the bone dust away. Then she picked up a heavy iron mallet and brought it down on the bone.

*Crunch.*

Outside, a heavy *thud* shook the snow, followed by the sound of a large body hitting the ground and shrieking.

"Creative," I breathed, a dark thrill curling in my stomach.

I watched her work. It was mesmerizing. It was brutal. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She wasn't fighting them with claws and teeth; she was unmaking them with art.

"Get the big one," I urged her, my fear turning into vindictive glee. "Kaelen. He’s the one howling now. Break his spine."

Vera looked at me. Her eyes were dark, reflective pools. "Is that what he deserves?"

"Yes," I spat. "They chased me for three hundred miles. They wouldn't let me live. They deserve everything they get."

Vera nodded slowly. "Karma is an equation, Jax. Pain for pain. Debt for debt."

She picked up a vertebrae. She carved a jagged line through the center. She twisted it in her hands until it crumbled.

The screaming outside stopped.

The silence that followed was absolute. The wind still howled, but the hunters were gone. Dead. Broken in the snow.

I let out a laugh—a wet, hysterical sound. I fell back onto the furs.

"You did it," I gasped. "You killed them all."

"I finished the work," Vera corrected. She stood up, wiping her hands on her apron. "The composition is complete."

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