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I didn’t care.

Let them rip each other apart.

The wordpackalone made my stomach turn. I had no use for wolves or their wars. What I did care about was the shoreline.

It had frozen again last night—thin layers of ice creeping across the water, jagged and stubborn. Our nets had come back empty for the third day in a row. We didn’t have a boat, couldn’t afford one, and without deeper waters, the fish were gone.

Dain sat on the edge of the dock this morning, legs dangling over the side, cheeks red from the cold. He held the net in his little hands, untangling it with more patience than I had. My fingers were raw from working the lines, frostbitten in places I couldn’t afford to bandage properly.

I crouched beside him, eyes scanning the gray sea. The horizon was empty. Always empty.

“This part’s broken,” Dain said, holding up a frayed length of rope.

I nodded. “I’ll mend it later.”

He didn’t ask about breakfast. He knew there wouldn’t be any, not until we caught something or traded for crumbs.

Behind us, the village stirred slowly to life—people sweeping snow from thresholds, hauling wood for fires, muttering curses about the cold. The thin layer of white made everything look cleaner than it was. It hid the rot. The damp. The hunger.

But it didn’t hide the truth. We were in trouble. And winter had only just begun.

Dain and I walked the familiar path home, our feet crunching over frost-hardened earth, the air sharp enough to sting our lungs. My shawl barely held back the cold, and Dain clung to my side, hands tucked deep into the oversized sleeves of his coat. He didn’t complain. He never did.

My stomach twisted in protest, loud and hollow. I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning, but it wasn’t my hunger thatgnawed at me—it was his. There was nothing left in the cottage. Not even flour dust in the tin.

Wouldn’t be the first time he went to bed with an empty belly.

Wouldn’t be the first time I lay awake beside him, listening to his breathing, and wondering if I’d made the right choices.

But the gods don’t answer those kinds of questions. As we passed the old mill road, I felt it—before I saw it. A shift in the air. The scent of leather, iron, cold steel, and something darker. Something that curled my wolf instincts into a tight knot, even beneath the runes.Danger.

“Dain,” I said softly. “Stay close.”

He nodded and pressed into my side.

Men were scattered through the village—strangers. Not villagers. Armed, armoured, not like our local guards with their patched leather and rusted swords. These men moved like predators, scanning every alley, every door, every face.

My blood turned to ice.

I kept my head down, hood drawn low. We weren’t important. Just poor, just tired, just cold.

One of them stepped into our path.

Tall. Broad. Fur-lined cloak. His eyes were the colour of wolves—pale gold and unblinking.

“You,” he said, voice rough with command. “Seen a boy? Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Blonde. Might be hiding here.”

I forced my body to stay still. Forced my voice into something small and forgettable. “No, sir.”

He stared at me too long. My skin prickled. Then he moved on without a word. I didn’t breathe until he was gone.

As we kept walking, I didn’t look back. Didn’t let the fear show. But inside, I knew. Knew with the certainty of instinct, of blood. These weren’tCrescent Moonpatrols.

These weren’t the quiet wolves who passed through once ortwice a season and left us alone. These were something else.Blood Night.I knew the stories. Every wolf did, whether they’d run from the packs or not.

They didn’t come for tribute. They came for blood.

My heart pounded like a war drum in my chest, but I didn’t let it show. I kept my head down, eyes on the muddy path as the soldier gave a curt gesture, allowing me to pass. I nodded once, clutching Dain’s hand tighter, and moved. Each step away from him felt like tiptoeing past a sleeping beast, praying not to wake it.