The fire crackled. The new wolves settled on the far side of the hollow. Mira caught my eye across the flames and gave a small nod, the kind that said she understood what today had cost and what it had given.
I nodded back. The bond between the four of us felt different tonight, wider, warmer, like the revenge had carved out space for something steadier.
We rode for three more days. The hills gave way to familiar ridges. Snow thinned. The air smelled of pine and home.
On the fourth night we camped high above the last pass before Frostfang. I sat with my back against a rock and watched the stars come out while the kings moved around me, checking gear, feeding the horses, making sure the new wolves had enough blankets.
I felt the weight of Niskanen's death lift a little more with every mile. It wasn't gone. It never would be. But it no longer sat on my chest like a stone I had to carry alone.
