Kano's War

Chapter 26

********************Amory******************

The wind screamed in my ears as we fell.

Branches whipped past, tearing at skin and cloth, but I didn't let go. One landed itself  into my rib, causing a good wound which could only be made by fate. My fingers were still clenched in Tristan's shirt, my body aching from the knife wounds and the bone-jarring impact of our landing.

Then we hit something wet. Something cold. And something suffocating.

It was a river that managed to swallow us whole.

I sank beneath the current, my body dragged by the weight of my injuries and the fight that refused to end. For a moment, I couldn't tell what was water and what was pain. I kicked upward blindly, lungs aching for air. When I finally broke the surface, I gasped, coughing violently as icy water poured down my throat.

Something grabbed my ankle.

Tristan.

Even bloodied and half-drowned, he was relentless. He yanked me under, and I clawed at the water, at him, anything to break free. My elbow struck something solid—his jaw maybe—and his grip slipped just long enough for me to twist away.

We were swept downriver, crashing through rapids, bouncing against rocks. Every impact made my head spin. Every second I spent fighting the current took another drop of strength I didn't have.

Eventually, the river spat us out.

I crawled to the muddy bank, shaking, coughing, bleeding from too many places to count. My muscles trembled, but I forced myself up. I was alive. I didn't know how, but I was.

And so was he.

Tristan stumbled up from the water behind me, soaked and feral, his face twisted with fury. Blood still poured from the side of his neck, but he was too stubborn—or too mad—to die just yet.

"You just don't quit, do you?" he snarled, spitting out a mouthful of red-stained river water.

I didn't answer. There was nothing left to say. Words meant nothing anymore.

We charged.

This time, there was no elegance, no tactics. Just raw, bitter rage. His fist connected with my already bruised side, and I cried out, dropping to one knee. He moved to finish it—arrogant, sloppy—and I drove my shoulder into his stomach, throwing him back against a tree.

The world narrowed to his eyes and mine. The ache in my ribs, the sting of the cuts, the roar of the river behind us—it all faded under the weight of instinct. I was fighting for my life. For Bali. For everyone back at the pack who still thought I was beneath the ground.

He lunged again, but I ducked, sweeping his legs. He crashed down hard, groaning as the wind knocked from his chest. I didn't hesitate. I straddled him and rained punches, each one powered by every memory of his arrogance, his cruelty, his hands around my neck.

"You—don't—get—to—win," I hissed between each strike.

Tristan threw me off with a surge of strength, scrambling to his feet with a snarl. "I'll drag your corpse back to the King if it's the last thing I do!"

I charged again—this time, not with fists. My claws tore free, half-wolf, half-broken. I slashed across his chest, and he screamed.

He tackled me into the mud, but I twisted beneath him, flipping us over again.

And then I saw it.

A jagged rock. Gleaming beneath the moonlight.

I grabbed it.