The knock was not gentle.
It came like a hammer on the wood, cutting through the warmth of the cabin. One, two, three sharp raps. No pause. No courtesy.
The knight looked up from the stew he was stirring, brows furrowing. The wolf rose from the hearth with a low growl, ears forward, hackles stiffening.
His wife stood at the far end of the cabin, one hand resting on her swollen belly. Without a word, she moved to the wall where the pelts hung, lifted the largest one — a dark bear hide — and draped it over her shoulders. It hung low enough to hide the curve of her stomach.
She didn't speak. She didn't have to. He saw it in her eyes — they've come.
He stepped to the door, unlatching the iron bar. It creaked open under his grip, and winter rushed in like a ghost. Three riders waited in the snow. Their horses snorted steam into the cold air, and their cloaks bore the sigil of the old king — a rusted sun on a red field.
The man at the front was younger than expected. Not a grizzled knight, but a polished envoy with high cheekbones and eyes like slate. He did not dismount.
"You are summoned," he said, without bow or greeting. "By name and blood, by oath and crown. His Majesty rides to war."
The knight stood in silence. His breath rose between them, visible and slow.
"I don't serve the crown," he said finally. "Not anymore."
The rider's lips curled slightly, but not in a smile.
"Your name still echoes in court. The king remembers the wolf of Dunhollow. The man who took forty men at Frostgate and left ten alive. He remembers the blade he forged, then lost."
The knight's hand twitched — not toward a weapon, but into a fist.
"Tell your king I laid that blade beside a grave. If he wants it back, he'll find it buried deeper than he dares to dig."
The younger rider's expression didn't change. He simply nodded once and turned his horse. The other two followed without a word, vanishing into the trees like shadows returning to their master.
The knight watched until they were gone. The snow swallowed their hoofprints quickly, as if the forest itself wanted no memory of them.
He closed the door.
His wife was still standing there, the heavy pelt draped over her, one hand holding it tight near her collar. Her other hand hovered again over her belly — not protectively, but knowingly. Like a shield that was growing thinner by the day.
"War again," she said softly.
"Aye."
"He'll come himself next time. Or send wolves dressed like men."
He nodded. Sat down at the table. The wolf returned to its place near the fire, but did not lie down.
She ladled the stew into two wooden bowls. Steam rose between them like a curtain.
"I chose you," she said quietly, "because when the world offered you blood and glory, you chose peace instead."
He met her eyes.
"You were the peace."
She smiled, sad and warm.
"And still I am," she whispered. "Even if the world doesn't know it."