Alvin wandered the tundra alone.
Snow clung to his boots, his hair, the scars on his chest. Every step away from the cliffs felt like a betrayal—but staying would've killed him.
He carried her ashes in a silver urn, cradled close to his ribs, just beneath the ash-wood pendant. It thumped faintly against his chest with each breath, like a second heartbeat.
Villages whispered when he passed.
“That's him—the Hunter King who refuses to slay."
“Traitor. He kneels to silverbloods."
“He walks with the dead."
He said nothing. He accepted it all.
Each insult was a tithe he gladly paid.
He disbanded the Legion.
He offered clemency to captive wolves.
He broke the old vows with his bare hands and burned the parchments in every garrison he once commanded.
No banners. No more commands. Just
