The fire crackled too hot for the chilly northern air, spitting embers into the blackening sky. Its orange light cast long shadows across the clearing where wagons lay overturned, canvas torn open, crates shattered like bones. The scent of burning grain and oiled leather filled the air, thick and cloying.
Men in dark armor moved through the wreckage with the precision of a wolf pack. They were silent, efficient—killing only what needed killing, torching only what would not be stolen. Horses screamed somewhere beyond the treeline, quickly silenced.
A merchant, bloodied and panting, knelt in the dirt, wrists bound with a soldier's sash. His eyes darted between the fires and the bodies of his hired guards—six in total, now strewn about the edge of the camp, limbs splayed at unnatural angles.
Footsteps approached.
The merchant flinched as a man stepped into view—tall, lean, with sharp shoulders and pale blond hair tied back with a black leather cord. A long sword hung low at his hip, its hilt dark with age and use.
"Name," the man said quietly.
The merchant licked his cracked lips. "Halven. Just—just a trader, I swear, my Lord. We were headed for the coastal pass."
"You lied at the last checkpoint," the man replied. His voice was calm, almost soft. "Said you had no weapons. Said you weren't carrying messages."
Halven trembled. "We're merchants. We hide coin, not scrolls."
The man crouched in front of him, gaze level. Pale gray eyes, like winter fog, looked through him.
"You passed through Kaelor's old post two days ago. One of your guards wore Athaxian steel."
"He was cheap!" Halven blurted. "Didn't ask where he came from. I didn't know!"
The man said nothing for a long moment. Then, with slow precision, he reached for the satchel beside him. From it, he drew a small, folded parchment—sealed in red wax with a crest that no longer flew above any castle.
He held it up without opening it. "Do you know what this is?"
Halven shook his head quickly.
"It's a whisper," the man said. "A whisper from a Southern House."
He stood. Behind him, a soldier tossed another crate onto the fire. Something inside popped—glass or oil.
The merchant swallowed. "Please—take the cargo, take the horses. Just let me go."
The blond man—Dane, known across scattered borders as the Wolf of Islan—considered that.
"Men like you sell what you don't understand," he said. "You carry secrets because coin outweighs conscience. And when blood runs for the second time, you'll pretend again you didn't know."
Halven opened his mouth to protest—too late.
A blade sang through the air, clean and fast.
Dane stepped back as the merchant slumped forward, blood blooming beneath his chin.
One of Dane's captains approached, eyes wary. "Orders, my lord?"
Dane looked to the horizon—where the peaks of the North barely touched the edge of the stars. "Clean the site. Take anything marked with the Athaxian sigil. Burn the rest."
"And the letter?" the captain asked, nodding to the sealed parchment now tucked back into Dane's cloak.
Dane's mouth twisted in something close to a smile. Cold. Feral.
"We deliver it," he said. "I think the little Northern Lordling would appreciate some company."
The wind shifted as they left the scorched camp behind, carrying with it the scent of pine and cold earth. Dane rode at the front of his column, the forest path narrowing into the spines of old northern woodland—uncharted by common maps but known well enough by old soldiers and the wolves who followed him.
They rode light—no banners, no trumpets, only the dull clink of leather and steel. This wasn't an army bred for spectacle. It was a force carved from silence, sharpened by retreat, and now returned to make a kingdom bleed.
Behind Dane, a thousand men rode in staggered formations, shadowed by scouts who moved like ghosts through the trees. But half of his strength—the other half—had not come with him.
He had sent them south.
Not blindly, but with purpose.
In the heart of the command column, a map unrolled over a makeshift table strapped to a mule's back. A dark-haired captain studied it with two other lieutenants, marking movement lines in ash and charcoal.
Dane's voice cut through the dusk without looking back. "Report."
The captain rode up beside him. "The second army moves through the ridge trail above Olyen's Gap. They'll reach the mouth of the coast road within three days. From there, they'll split—one toward the outposts… the other toward the first Southern city."
Dane's mouth twitched—not a smile, but something colder. "Good."
He slowed his mount as the forest began to thin, revealing a rocky outcrop high above the river valley. The view stretched far—across broken woods, abandoned farmland, and the faint glint of northern watchtowers. He raised one gloved hand. The column behind him halted.
One of his scouts approached, breath shallow from the climb. "There's movement near the border. Riders. House Svedana's colors, lightly armed—likely patrols."
"Let them see us," Dane said, turning slightly. "Then disappear before they count our numbers."
The scout hesitated. "You want them to report us?"
"I want them to fear what they almost saw." He gestured to the ridgeline ahead. "We move under fog by morning. I want all signs of our march cleared. No footprints, no ash, no steel left behind."
The captains exchanged glances. This was how Dane fought—not with overwhelming force, but with the slow, suffocating dread of inevitability. By the time your walls were breached, you had already lost the war days before.
A falcon's cry rang overhead—one of their messenger birds circling back from the southern flank.
Dane held out an arm. The bird landed neatly, a sliver of parchment tied to its leg. He unraveled it, eyes narrowing.
"What is it?" one lieutenant asked.
Dane read it once more. Then he burned it against his vambrace torch.
"They've taken the pass near Rhistel. No resistance."
"This is looking good for us, my Lord."
Dane turned his horse, looking toward the icy mountains rising like a jagged crown in the far North. "Indeed. We continue north."
He raised his hand, signaling the march to resume. Behind him, the Wolf's army vanished once more into the trees.
And in the distance—unseen, but heard—another falcon flew toward Vetasta, bearing only one seal.
A wolf crowned with thorns.