Page 126 of The Moonborn's Curse

He saw it.

The glint of silver.

The blade.

Her hands moved with terrifying grace as she lifted the knife, her wrists already bared.

"No—"

His voice cracked, ripped from his throat in a snarl of panic.

The blood came in long, dark ribbons.

It flowed down her arms, spilling freely into the earth. It pooled at her feet, soaked into the sacred soil as the spell circle pulsed with crimson light.

He didn't think—he lunged.

Shifted mid-stride, half-wolf, all fury, claws slamming into the golden edge of the ward.

It held.

And burned.

A shock of agony tore through him, hurling him backwards, steam rising from the place his skin had touched the barrier. He staggered, stumbled—and threw himself at it again.

And again.

It was like smashing into the sun.

The skin along his shoulder blistered, the flesh of his palms seared raw—but he didn't care. Didn't stop.

"Seren!"

Her head was drooping now. Her legs buckled.

Blood still flowed in streams.

The scent of it was overwhelming. It choked his throat and shattered his focus.

"Seren, please—"

"Hagan!"

The voice was sharp.

The Highclaw emerged from the gathering crowd, his face a mask of confusion and dread. He took one look at the circle, then at Hagan's scorched arms.

"Stop," Draken barked, grabbing his son's shoulders.

"She's bleeding out!" Hagan roared, wild-eyed. "She's—look at her!"

"I see her," Draken snapped. "And if you keep hitting that barrier, you'll go down too."

"She's dying!"

Draken glanced at the blood-soaked earth; his jaw clenched tight. "These are old wards. Forbidden magic. I've only seen it once before. And we cannot penetrate it. The Oracle is on her way."

"She's fading!" Hagan was panting now, sweat and smoke rising from his skin, hands trembling. The ink on his wrist started running. "I can't feel her anymore!"

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