I trudged back to Fangreach with heavy boots and a heavier mind. The wind on the western ridge was keener somehow after our journey through Glimmerholt's caves—like the Wolf‑King's touch had sculpted a whole new world. But nothing in that frozen abyss prepared me for the cold that welcomed us at home.
It had been late afternoon when I heard the first warning, which was already too late. Mara had burst into my chamber without even bothering to knock. Her face, normally composed, was taut and pinched. "Ambassador," she gasped, "They took half our supplies."
I jumped out of my bed—still in my travel leathers—then followed her outside into the courtyard, where torches danced around toppled crates and ransacked wagons. Apprentices of Silverclaw gawked at shattered Sigils; Scouts Freeborn quickly re-filling hunting-loads; Sentries Blackfang glancing through the tree-line with shrunken eyes.
