POV: Ronan
The northern passes wanted us dead.
I'd known that before we started—known it in my bones the way I knew winter's bite and silver's burn. The mountains between Drevalon and Thornhaven weren't just geographic barriers. They were sentient in their cruelty, testing every step with ice that looked solid until your weight hit it, with winds that could strip flesh from bone if you weren't careful.
Perfect territory for an ambush. Perfect place to die.
Which meant the vampires would be waiting.
My Direwolf, Drogath, prowled beneath my skin as we climbed another ridge of black stone. Seventeen days since my son had been taken. Seventeen days of tracking, hunting, following the faint threads of his scent through snow and stone and the occasional patch of frozen blood that made my vision go red.
Lucian. My boy. The child I'd claimed as mine when his own blood had cast him out.
In vampire hands. In Thornhaven's hands.
