The Frostclaw delegation arrived before the blood on Blackthorne’s stone had fully dried.
Their banners cut through the gray morning like blades of ice—white wolves on storm-blue fields, snapping in the cold wind beyond the outer gates. The horn blasts echoed across the valley, low and deliberate. Not a greeting.
A warning.
From the balcony outside Kael’s chamber, I watched from behind warded glass as their entourage assembled in the courtyard below—twenty warriors in immaculate formation, armored in silver-trimmed mail etched with frost sigils. At their center stood their Alpha.
Bran Frostclaw.
He was taller than Kael by a half head, broad as a warhorse, his pale hair bound at the base of his neck. His eyes were an unnatural shade of glacial blue—too light. Too knowing.
Predator eye
