Matt was unconscious for most of the journey, but when he had woken, the rest journey back to the castle was exhaustingly long.
Matt rode at the head of the procession, his body aching, his wounds still healing. The Harkma blood had done its work—the gashes from Harry's claws had closed, the broken bones had knitted, the deep bruising had faded to a dull ache. But the exhaustion remained. Deep. Bone-deep. The kind of tired that came from fighting for your life and winning by the narrowest of margins.
Yvonne rode beside him, her hand resting on his arm. She had barely spoken since they left the clearing. Her eyes were distant, lost in thoughts she didn't share.
Behind them, the pack followed—a long line of wolves in human form, their faces pale, their eyes wary. They had witnessed the challenge, had seen their alpha fall, had watched the Harkma rise. Now they followed him, uncertain but hopeful.
