The wind howled like a mourning widow.
It swept through the hills of Clan Seven, sharp as a blade, carrying with it the scent of pine, frozen bark, and the stench of blood. Orion crouched low on the tree line, the crisp edge of winter biting at his bare forearms, but he welcomed the sting. Pain had long become a comfort, one of the few sensations he still trusted.
Before him, a stretch of white snow lay untouched, serene. Except it was only an illusion; there was nothing serene about it.
The barns behind him were supposed to be filled with weaponry, smuggled crates, silver rounds, and false blueprints of his territory, all meant to lure out the rats that had crept into his territory like shadows. The bait had been perfect. The trap was flawless, or so he thought.
Yet the enemy had walk
