Chapter 60 The Wolf's Shadow

Fynn POV The forest is a labyrinth of claw and fang, the air thick with the reek of blood and scorched earth, the hum of red-gold-black-silver a relentless pulse that claws at my skull, syncing with the black flicker in my chest—a beast, not a spark, roaring break, end, become. Morgan lies still, his heart silent, blood pooling from the Warden’s blade buried in his chest, his silver light gone, his hand cold in mine, and I’m screaming, my light—red-gold-white-silver—pouring into him, a desperate prayer, not healing, not enough, just begging, “Morgan, come back—please!” My tears fall, hot, useless, the black flicker surging, black tendrils—not mine, not controlled—lashing the ground, burning roots, and the forest answers, black wolves circling, their eyes blazing, not chaos, not balance, but mine, tied to me, to the flicker, to the end.