He descended with measured strides. “You shouldn’t wander alone yet.”
“I’m not wandering,” I replied. “I’m learning the terrain.”
“Good,” he said. “You’ll need to.”
He gestured to the far end of the cavern, where an older wolf lay propped against a stone pillar, chest bound in blood-soaked cloth. His breathing was shallow, ragged.
“Your first lesson,” Nicero said. “Blackfang does not coddle weakness. That warrior challenged a Frostborne marauder pack yesterday. He misjudged the terrain and paid for it.”
I stared at the man. “Is he going to die?”
“Possibly.”
“And you’re letting him suffer as an example?”
“No,” Nicero replied evenly. “I’m letting him choose whether he still wants to live.”
The wounded wolf’s eyes snapped toward us. Something fierce flickered behind the pain.
“I want to fight,” he rasped.
Nicero nodded once. Then he turned to me. “Your magic stabilized a fading soul last night. Show me what you can do when the blood is still warm.”
My breath caught. “You want me to heal him?”
“Attempt it,” Nicero corrected. “Success is optional. Courage is not.”