They’d been attacked twice more barely thirty minutes into their trip. Another member of their group had fallen amidst the attacks, but the general strategy they’d developed during the first time they’d met the wolves had worked well enough.

Whatever grace Florian lacked, he made up for with sheer anger and will. The only one with the strength necessary to truly harm the creatures, these battles became battles of attrition, where all Florian needed to do was convince the wolves that they could hold out for far longer than the wolves. Still, by the end of the second attack, Florian’s stamina flagged.

But they could not stop, for stopping meant prolonging their journey and exposing themselves to even more danger. Florian trudged along a child barely six years old. Jake, the little boy, stared at Florian’s slightly deformed mace with open admiration.

Had the weapon been any less heavy, Florian might have considered giving it to the child to examine, but as it were, Jake wouldn’t even be able to lift the thing, much less carry it as they walked.

“Mister, are you a warrior?” Jake asked as he kicked a pebble down the highway. “My mom said that I’d get to meet a lot of warriors on this trip,” Jake lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as he glanced at the two elderly men that still walked alongside them, “but I think you’re the only warrior here!”

Florian grimaced. Surely, the woman had known that she was sending her child to his death. A part of him understood the decision to do so; none of the residents of Dover Castle knew where the nearest safety could be found, and so they tried their best to remain on Taylor’s good side. But the other part of him wanted to throw the woman in a dank cell for her to ruminate on her actions until she realized just how twisted she had become. At least she had the good sense to send her son off with hope rather than fear.

“Yes, Jake, I’m a warrior. The others are too, even if they don’t look like it very much. A long time ago, they were Dover’s best,” Florian replied, mustering a smile he didn’t know he had left.

Jake’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Really?”

“Really.”

The boy sped off to inform his friends of his recent discovery. Only the oldest, a boy by the name of Joe, knew the story to be a fabrication. The twelve-year-old apparently had wisdom beyond his years, for he did nothing to refute Florian’s claims. Instead, Joe gave Florian an appraising look before returning to manage his two subordinates.

Florian now led the way, slowing the speed of the group a little bit, but ultimately affording the children more security given that two of the older group had already perished. Protecting three children between the four of them shouldn’t have been as difficult as it was, but the wolves proved merciless and ready to pounce on any opportunity they sensed.

“Halt!” Florian cried, seeing a golden flash off to the side of his vision. “Positions, everyone!” The elderly surrounded the children, forming a triangle of spears; those with shorter weapons or pitchforks had replaced them with the weapons of the fallen long ago.

Slowly, the golden monsters stalked out from the shrubbery lining the highway. One, two, three… Florian kept counting, his heart beating a faster and faster with every additional Hellwolf. Twelve. It was a pack twice as large as the previous largest, and in that attack the group had lost two. And Florian had been in better shape, then.

“As soon as I signal, the children are to run back to Dover.” Florian said, his voice carrying far in the quiet of the day. He spared a glance backwards, seeing the other adults’ jaws tighten and their hands steady, despite their certain deaths. The children alone looked worried, but Joe’s shaky nod to Florian relieved the growing sense of concern he harbored for their safety. He wouldn’t be able to protect them on the way home, but at least Joe knew the way back to the castle. Florian refused to believe the warriors on guard would bar the children from safety.

The Hellwolves stalked forward, and in response, Florian calmed himself as well as he could. His breathing steadied, and he charged. “Run!” he cried, hearing the pitter-patter of small feet fall into the distance. A few of the monsters tried to break away to pursue, but Florian’s group split up to harry the creatures.

It didn’t take long for the first of them to fall, the old woman standing no chance against even a single wolf, much less the three she had taken upon herself. Her spear was lodged in the side of one of the beasts, but it seemed to cause the Hellwolf no discomfort as it feasted.

It was a sight that might have at any other time inspired terror, but now it was the picture of hope. The monsters weren’t intelligent enough to pursue the children before they escaped, more interested in the fresh kill.

Florian returned his thoughts to his own fight, even as his allies continued to scream in pain. He slammed his mace down on the head of the nearest wolf, contorting his body as best as he could to avoid a snapping maw. The third of his wolves bit at his left leg, snapping the wooden peg that had been there.

Stumbling, Florian managed to remove his mace from the head of the first wolf, the injured beast backing away at the same time as Florian fell to the ground. By now – though it had only been a matter of seconds – the screams had ended. It was him, surrounded by eleven Hellwolves, alone.

Still, Florian clutched his mace to his chest, determined to injure at least another wolf before he died. The wolves closed in on him slowly, dragging out the inevitable. The grins on their canine faces told stories of unnatural cruelty, for not even the vilest wolf could bear such an expression. This, this was evil manifest.

The same wolf he’d injured leapt forward, seeking retribution. Florian swung his mace, but the weapon was too unwieldy for him to use with any accuracy on the ground. Knowing his counter-attack missed, Florian closed his eyes, waiting for the pain.

Except it never came.

He heard a whimper, and then a body slumping to the ground. Florian’s eyelids rocketed up, and what he saw confused him. A man stood there, long wheat-colored hair floating in defiance of gravity, as if supported by a wind that was not there. His hands glowed a subtle blue, and the man unleashed one throwing knife after another, each knife cutting through the Hellwolves as if they were slicing butter.

Soon, not a single monster remained standing, leaving only the man and Florian. Florian’s savior muttered something unintelligible and laid down against the asphalt, clutching his head, his face a pained rictus.

Florian crawled over to the man, sitting up beside him, determined to figure out what on Earth the man had done to those knives for them to carry such penetrating power. But when he made it over, Florian was surprised.

The man had fallen unconscious.