They struck before dawn.
Silent.
Scattered.
Invisible.
Small units.
Ten men each.
Chosen carefully.
Hunters.
Climbers.
Killers.
Aren led the first.
Lysa the second.
Caelis the third.
They moved through pine forests and ravines.
Snow packed around boots.
Breath hidden in scarves.
Every sound mattered.
Draven's camp lay in a narrow valley.
Fires low.
Tents half-buried.
Men huddled for warmth.
Confident in numbers.
Careless in cold.
Aren raised his fist.
Stop.
Wait.
Listen.
Snoring.
Coughing.
Metal clinking.
Perfect.
The signal came.
A raven's cry.
False.
Deadly.
They descended.
Knives first.
Throats opened silently.
Bodies eased into snow.
No screams.
No alarms.
Then Lysa's arrow flew.
A torch fell.
Fire spread.
Panic erupted.
Men ran blind.
Slipped.
Collided.
Died.
Draven officers tried to rally.
Caelis cut them down.
Shield to face.
Axe to helm.
No mercy.
Aren reached the command tent.
Inside, maps.
Gold.
Letters.
One bearing Rowan's seal.
Forged.
A lie meant to divide.
He took it.
Evidence.
Weapon.
Horns finally sounded.
Too late.
The wolves were gone.
They vanished into trees.
Leaving chaos behind.
Burning tents.
Broken morale.
Frozen dead.
By sunrise, Draven's camp was shattered.
Food destroyed.
Supplies gone.
Confidence ruined.
Back at Frostgate, men cheered softly.
Not loudly.
Not wastefully.
Winter punished noise.
Aren read the captured letter again.
Someone in Greyhaven still plotted.
Still reached for his throat.
War was not only on borders.
It lived in palaces.