Chapter 47

• The heavy, spiced sweetness of the mead coated my tongue, but as I swallowed, a sudden, searing heat ripped through my chest.
• It wasn't the warmth of alcohol. It was liquid fire.
• My vision blurred violently, the vibrant firelight of the clearing fracturing into streaks of sickly yellow and gold. My lungs seized, refusing to draw air, as my wolf shrieked inside my mind—a desperate, dying cry. The silver horn slipped from my numb fingers, shattering against the stone floor.