We rode for Cain through the broken dark, and I tracked him the only way I could through the bond, that thin bright thread stretched taut across the miles between us, telling me he still lived, still moved, still fought.
It was fraying. Not the bond itself that would never fray while we both breathed. What frayed was the strength coming down it. Cain was tiring. The lure had worked too well; the whole grievance-army had come for him, and twelve wolves drawing hundreds through the dark can run and scatter and lead, but they can't do it forever. Through the mark on my throat I felt him spending himself, hour by hour, keeping the army chasing shadows while he waited for the trap that was never going to spring.
He didn't know yet that the fortress hadn't fallen. He was still buying time for
