Ella tore through the tree line, paws pounding the frozen ground. Greenland's outer palisade came into view—tall, braced, unshaken. No alarms. No chaos.
Archers stood in their stations, bows drawn but steady. Gate bracers were set, kill zones marked. The place looked like it was waiting, not scrambling.
She slowed at the edge of the clearing, hidden in shadow.
In the center of the yard stood Gilbert. Calm. Exact. Devastating. He moved through the lines like he'd choreographed them, directing volleys here, spear walls there. His voice never rose, but the soldiers moved faster than if he'd shouted.
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The rogues came in waves, slipping from the dark. They didn't last.
By dawn, their bodies lay in neat rows outside the wall. Torches burned low. Snowflakes clung to steel and fur.
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