Killian wasn't aware he was someone who could go into a rage blackout.

But, as the red fog cleared from his mind, he saw he'd pinned Longwark to the brick wall and didn't know how he got there.

That was … a huge problem.

He was lucky he hadn't blindly shifted.

'Fuck,' Killian muttered.

He had no memory of this. No recollection of ripping the kid out of Longwark's grasp. Absolutely did not remember knocking Longwark out, hard enough to make his fist throb and to shatter one of Longwark's sets of spectacles. He trod of broken glass as Longwark's head lolled forward.

Killian let Longwark slide to the cobblestones and put him in recovery position, fumbling for his first aid kit. He had a potion that could stem internal bleeding, if he was fast enough.

The irony was not lost on him. He forced the potion past Longwark's lips. Dumped the contents of his water flask on Longwark's face. Searched his first aid for anything else that would revive him, but his supplies were already running low. He would bring the bastard back. Hitting him like that was a colossal mistake, they needed Longwark. What was wrong with him, for Clochaint's sake.

He remembered instructing his men - too few, far too few, but it was all he had - to creep into town, emphasising they needed to be in stealth mode. He'd told them that they were creating a metaphorical spiderweb to observe, step-in, and capture after Longwark had engaged the vampiric sorcerer in a confrontation.

He remembered the unsettling quiet of the town. The people here were hiding. Terrified.

He remembered instructing Emwell to hole up with Sorena, that she needed to be concealed and protected inside an abandoned office, and not to come out until Killian himself sounded the all clear. It damn well hurt to let Sorena out of his sight and see another soldier gone. One less fighter working with Killian.

And he remembered tailing the kid, clinging to the mossy-tiled rooftops as he observed silently from above, and hearing the ruthless and steady thud, thud, thud of Longwark's heartbeat right below him. The kid wasn't quite right, and Killian's own heartbeat had surged. He wanted to pull Gray the hell out, but he couldn't, this plan had to work. He'd motioned for Codder, creeping from rooftop to rooftop with him, to lie low.

And he absolutely remembered the instant he realised something was wrong.

Longwark was holding onto the kid. His damn hands were on Gray. He was much too rough.

Sorcerers rarely manhandled their collections and apprentices. They didn't phsyically push them around. It was all head games and mental control with them. Longwark shouldn't have been hauling the kid up like that, not if he'd gone into collection mode, not if the kid wasn't in any immediate danger. The kid had always insisted Longwark wasn't collecting him-

'Major?'

Killian glanced up, wrenching his attention to the present. Longwark unconscious. Empty and silent streets. Codder was pale-faced behind him. There was a serrated edge to his voice, and it took a fraction of a second for Killian to realise what was wrong.

The kid was gone.

Taken.

------

Codder was stuttering, about a shadow, that he'd only turned his head for a second, 'it happened so fast, Major-'

'Stay with Longwark. Revive him, quick.'

Killian surged into a run.

Towards Gallow's Alley.

No sound. No scent. Wicked fast. Killian had encountered this once before, the day the pride of mountain griffins had attacked, and something had tracked the glittering dust from the tombs into the Hall suite afterwards. This was not like any sorcerer he'd fought before.

The street narrowed around him, twisting. The upper stories leaned so close he could almost touch both sides with his shoulders.

Killian pressed forward, mouth dry, his breath coming out fast, and his boots striking a quick, hard rhythm. There would be no losing himself to fury again. No rage black outs. Full control. He ducked underneath a sagging sign, following his mental map, taking every turn he needed, to get him to Gallow's Alley.

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That alley had its' tomb - one that had already been robbed when Killian found it, all those weeks ago. Someone had already interfered with it, and that someone had skill, they had magic, because there had been faint markings of white chalk on the cobblestones near the entrance. Likely Branbright, and maybe Longwark, too.

Not that it mattered. That shit didn't matter now.

All that mattered was that thing would take Gray, and would either attempt a collection or make him the next victim of his ritual.

Killian didn't know which would be a worse fate.

He sprinted faster, heart battering his ribs. He barrelled past a tipped cart from a fruit shop, spoiling oranges lying in the street, bombarding his nose, stripping away all other scents with a citric sting.

A splash ahead. Someone was in the drainage path, the low-cut alley where the gutters emptied.

He skidded around the corner, ready to shift into his wolf form, ready for the bone-crunching pain and power-

-and nearly took a knife in the throat.

Steel thudded against his leather vambrace as he deflected the strike. A northerner stood in front of him, levelling a knife in one hand, and an axe in the other. Kohl caught in the crow's feet around her eyes and her brown hair was pulled back into tight twists.

Killian knew her. He'd made a significant effort to hunt down her name and stats, because this was the woman who'd come into his Hall suite and spoken northern to Gray right in front of him. Under the pretense she was a servant.

Terri Bannark.

A weapons and defence instructor at the local school, and she had some impressive stats.

Really impressive.

'Wrong turn, soldier,' Terri said. Her accented Lismerian was ice.

Killian felt his lip curl, every nerve in his body pulled taut. He would keep his head. He would maintain his control. He took in her stance and hard, quick gaze. This woman would be a formidable fighter. An idea bloomed in his mind.

Because he was short of men.

So damn short.

The carefully curated team, chosen by Jessica, was demolished. All that Killian had was a random handful of soldiers, half of which he didn't even know, and he needed fighters, good ones-

Terri lunged, her axe swinging for his ribs. Killian twisted, leather scraping against stone as he slammed her wrist aside. The knife in her other hand came up quickly. Too quick. He ducked and felt the blade shear a lock of hair from his temple.

'Wait a moment, ma'am,' snarled Killian.

He was in danger of shifting on her - he couldn't, the wolf would kill her, and that would wreck any chance he had of convincing the northerners to help-

A boot cracked into his knee, buckling it. Pain flashed, but he shoved through it, catching her by the throat and slamming her back against the alley wall. There was the tell-tale press of a blade against his ribs, and he knocked it aside, violently, furiously. His teeth were bared and he was shaking from the effort at keeping the wolf down.

'I'm here for Gray,' Killian said. 'The sorcerer has him. Stand down!'

Terri slammed her head forward, colliding with his jaw.

Staggering back, Killian straightened, blood in his mouth. His trembling was out of control. He had no idea what would happen if he had another rage blackout and shifted at the same time. 'You understand me? Gray. Danger. Bad sorcerer.'

She spun the axe once in her hand, before she levelled the axe blade underneath Killian's chin. 'I understood you, you vile peice of sh-'

'I need your help,' Killian snarled. 'I need fighters. How many of you are still here-'

'We're not helping you, ever-'

'Did you hear me? The sorcerer has Gray.'

'What sorcerer?'

'Clochaint,' said Killian. 'There's no time - I need your help.'

Terri's mouth twisted with focus, with disdain. 'A sorcerer has Gray?'

'Yes.'

'Little Gray Griffin?'

'Fuck. Yes.'

Her hard gaze swept over Killian, like she was imagining how to kill him. 'A sorcerer is here?'

'Gods, woman, yes-'

'This, here, isn't the work of a sorcerer. This is a curse.'

'The sorcerer has him now, ma'am.'

'And you want our help,' said Terri. 'To get him back.'

Killian edged forward. The wolf was an inch from releasing hell.

'Beg,' said Terri.

Killian thought, in that moment, that he'd never hated someone as much as he did this woman. Though, it was not true, of course. There was a list of people - creatures - he hated much, much more.

Red fog was clouding Killian's mind.

He could fall to his knees and beg.

Or he could unleash the wolf.

He glared at her, at her white knuckled grip on her axe, and the hard, kohl-smudged gaze, and the tiny black crow sewn onto the collar of her shirt. Her heartbeat was rapid. Steady, though.

With difficulty, and with the sharp press of the axe blade under his chin, Killian shifted his weight.

In one careful movement, Killian knelt onto the cobbled ground.

'Please. Please, help me,' he said through gritted teeth. 'I need fighters. Good ones. Because the sorcerer has Gray right now.'

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