The pack crowds in from the reeds, jaws flashing at Kamakulzar’s arms and legs. He is half-buried in churned mud, but his skin hardens to stone in a last instant.
He slugs out with brutal, heavy blows, hammering wolf muzzles aside. Several bodies skid off his shoulders and chest, while others cling on, dragging him down.
Mud grips him to the knees. The wolves press harder, confident in numbers, snapping and wrenching as he keeps driving his fists through the tangle.
Then the clouds split. Moonlight spills across the marsh, cold and bright, and the whole battlefield goes still under a huge, primal howl.
From the reeds steps a colossal winter wolf, fur white as frost, eyes burning with ancient malice. Lesser wolves shrink back at once, ears flat, tails low.
Frost creeps over the mud around its paws. The bone-mark’s pull sharpens in the cold, and the new predator fixes on Kamakulzar like it has found the true trail.