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Battle never ceases to be ugly. There was no world in which a male could live that war would not be little more than wanton destruction. But despite his grief for the necessity of war, it was with fierce satisfaction that Tarkyn observed that these fucking Tigers weren’t prepared.

They had arrogantly—and almost rightly—believed no one would expect them to quarter themselves so close to their chosen enemy. Full of their own cleverness, and likely lulled into a false sense of security by the bears who were powerful in a fight, they’d let themselves believe they wouldn’t be touched.

Pride comes before a fall.

Or, perhaps, arrogance comes before the pack.

While they’d intended to fight, it was soon clear that the Tigers weren’t accustomed to fighting in numbers.

Tarkyn understood on the face of it at least. While wolves, and to a certain degree lions, hunted and fought in packs and prides, Zev had explained while they prepared and waited for word from the scouts that the Tigers were solitary animals. Accustomed to making unilateral decisions, and receiving servitude from those weaker, the tigers had always relied on their sheer strength to win in a fight.

For that reason, a single tiger could often win a one-on-one challenge. Their dominance in hierarchy wasn’t disputed.

But the Tigers had never been to war.

.....

They’d had no training in how to meet an enemy that darted and dodged, distracted, and supported itself. They’d never learned to meet a coordinated attack—only a fight.

They were overwhelmed.

Thanks to Harth’s last, desperate sending, Tarkyn had known exactly where she and Sasha were positioned in the camp—it was why he’d insisted on running all the way to the end of the trail and coming down that final hillside. The moment he’d taken that last corner, he’d seen the trees and spaces and recognized the fading images from Harth. With Zev on his heels, he raced towards the trees where they were both tied, slumped, and Harth stinking of blood in a way that turned Tarkyn’s stomach.

But he was a soldier… he knew. You couldn’t save anyone else until you’d fought the enemy off yourself. So, as the wolves poured over the edge of the trail above and flowed into camp, Tarkyn quickly positioned himself in front of his mate and crouched, turning, teeth bared and roaring, defying any enemy to come for him.

And come they did.

But there was nothing they could do. There was no anger or intention in Creation that could meet his love for his mate, or his determination to save her.

He fought as he had never fought before, barely feeling his beast’s presence, almost fully-himself in the massive lion’s body as the tigers came for them.

Lion claws laid ribs open to the bone and tore limbs loose from those stupid enough to keep human-form. Lion jaws broke tiger spines and tore out throats. Lion roars echoed across the mountain and called allies to arms… Or fangs, as the case may be.

For minutes, he held no thought except the next target, the next threat to his love. But it was a bloodbath—even in the midst of the fight he could see it was clear that the Tigers were outnumbered, overpowered, and outwitted.

He might have felt the joy of that, might have let his heart sing even while he still fought, except he knew his mate was slowly fading behind him.

He had to clear the path to get her out of here safely. And so, he did.

Lions and wolves, Ibex and owls, good hearts, strong bodies, and minds fought for life, not death, flowed like a tidal wave over the encampment.

Noble predators were unleashed and malicious predators brought death.

And right alongside him, the wolf fought just as determinedly for his mate.

Zev was magnificent. He would have stolen Tarkyn’s breath.

Just feet away from Tarkyn, the male was a blur of speed and strength, flashing teeth, and silent rage. He slipped forms between wolf and man with ease, first using teeth to tear out throats, and in a blink, hands to snap spines. Zev moved so quickly it felt to Tarkyn as if the eye never truly followed him. Zev set to the task of killing tigers with the speed and efficiency of a master.

A small, humble voice in the back of Tarkyn’s head expressed relief that he’d never been the target of that rage—not entirely. And prayed that he never would be.

Under different circumstances, Tarkyn might have been breathless in the face of that—even intimidated. But he could only find relief. Praise. Gratitude. Because Zev was unleashed, but not uncontrolled.

The wolf didn’t give in to bloodlust—he wasn’t killing for the joy of it. He was devouring an enemy.

It was clear in the wolf’s quick, efficient movements, in the darting of his eyes, and the careful positioning of his body… he knew exactly who his enemy was, and kept his lethal focus on them.

And the moment… the very moment the last of the tigers fell into the dirt, his throat torn out and spilling his lifeblood to feed the trees, Zev stopped.

Like a candle blown out, his wolf disappeared, leaving the heaving man in its wake.

It was a bloodbath. A battle that passed so quickly, Tarkyn felt as if he blinked through killing, and suddenly the only sounds left were howls of triumph, and the moans of those being allowed to die slowly.

A second after Zev returned to human form, his chest heaving and body still poised for attack, he caught eyes with Tarkyn.

There was a moment then—a sharing of relief and respect, when both of them knew and understood the other’s strength. But it passed in a blink, because they were both scanning the space around them to make utterly certain they had victory.

Tarkyn and Zev both, looking carefully, scenting the air, made certain that no more enemies were to be found, before each of them turned and rushed to their mate’s sides.