Snow smothered the forest in a white silence, falling thick and heavy like the sky was trying to bury the world. The storm had eased only slightly, but the cold still bit at exposed skin, stinging with each breath. The trees groaned under the weight of new ice, branches bending low.
Korren moved through the forest with the predatory calm of a wolf who feared nothing—not the cold, not the storm, not the trail of blood that cut across the drifts like a gash. His boots left deep prints behind him, his shoulders stiff beneath furs taken from the Hale territory border three winters ago. The pelt brushed the backs of his thighs, a trophy stolen from a pack long dead.
He preferred it that way.
History tasted better when it was stolen.
Behind him, six of his men followed—wolves in human skin,
