Snow no longer looked like snow.
It looked like ash.
It fell thick over the south ridge, gathering on branches, blanketing dead leaves, coating the world in a silence that did not belong to Christmas morning. This kind of hush was not peace. It was anticipation. It was the moment a blade hovered above a throat and waited for the final breath.
Warriors lined the ridge in tense formation. Weapons gleamed. Wolves paced. Growls rippled through the ranks. The ground itself felt wound tight, as if the earth had braced for what was coming.
Ronan stood beside me, posture rigid, gaze pinned to the treeline ahead.
And there, at the edge of sight, shadows gathered.
Not a few. Not a scouting party. A wave.
Rogues. Dozens. Then more. Then even more until the spaces between trees were nothing but
