Freda Pov
Viktor let out a wet cough from his spot by the stone well. He was dragging his bad leg behind him, trying to pull himself up using the rotten wooden frame, but his fingers slipped on the moss and he slid back down with a sharp grunt.
"Don't give them anything, Caleb," Viktor rasped. He wiped a fresh line of dark blood from his upper lip with his dirty sleeve. "They are done. My warriors are still at the lower creek."
"Your warriors at the creek ran away when my captains showed them the iron shields, Viktor," Caleb said. He did not turn around to look at him. He kept his white hair tilted toward Urdon.
"You don't have a pack anymore. You have a bleeding thigh and a name that doesn't mean anything in this valley."
"We still have a pack," I said.
Caleb looked down at me, his light grey eyes entirely flat under the moonlight. He looked at my thin wrists and the way my jacket hung loose from the famine months.
