Alastair.
The smoke was still clearing when the cheering started.
Voices rose into the air like a battle cry turned triumph, echoing off the stone walls of the stronghold. Some were whooping in disbelief, others sobbing with laughter or relief. Men and women—wolves and humans alike—collapsed against one another, sweat-soaked and steaming from the dousing. Even the youngest recruits were shouting, fists to the sky.
We had won.
And not just survived. No children were taken. No lives lost. Not this time.
I didn't join the chorus of joy.
Instead, I stood near the broken edge of the courtyard where the last jet of pressurized water had spat its final burst, soaking the retreating tails of Julia's fleeing foxes. Steam still hissed up from the scorched stones, mixing with the mist that rolled in from the mountain river. The piping system had held—barely. It hadn't even been fully rigged. But it was enough.
Too much luck for my liking.
