Sunset bled red over the snow.
I stood at the tree line alone. No Damien. No guards. Just two daggers at my belt. His daggers. Black steel. Winter-forged.
“One hour,” he’d said at the border. “If you call, I come.”
I wouldn’t call.
The Frost Wolf den was a cave carved into North Ridge. Smoke came from it. Laughter. The sound of men breaking things. Pup screams.
Twenty men. Rogue wolves. Killers who burned villages for fun.
My hands didn’t shake. My wolf didn’t hide.
Eighteen years of being called wolf-less ended here.
I moved.
Snow swallowed my steps. Wind covered my scent. Damien taught me that without words. Beast of the North knew how to hunt. Now I did too.
First guard at the cave mouth. Big. Scarred. Knife bigger than his brain. He leaned on a spear, bored.
I was behind him
