Korren hated the cold.
Not because it weakened him—wolves endured far worse—but because it reminded him that comfort was a luxury, and luxuries made people forget what was owed.
The fire crackled low in the center of the ruined lodge, its light casting warped shadows along the broken beams and blood-darkened floor. The splintered pack gathered around it in loose clusters, their forms tense even at rest. Hunger hung in the air—not just for food, but for certainty.
Korren stood apart from them, one hand braced against a cracked support pillar, gaze fixed on the flames.
They were late.
Again.
He felt it in his bones before the scout finally stumbled in through the shattered doorway, snow clinging to his hair and shoulders.
“They crossed the ridge,” the scout panted. “Hale’s Crest terri
