At the sound of the war horns, Gilly took off from the meeting hall, his legs pounding to catch up with his father. He pushed through the crowds of screaming people, the enormous wolves running at lightning speed to and fro as the warriors gathered their arms.

He ran for the dock, sprinting as fast as he could. If he could convince Samas to stay, to fight despite the Wolf King and his disrespect, these people wouldn’t have to die. They had no control over the manners of their ruler, and they had no say in their deaths. 

Gilly dashed in-between wagons of supplies, then fell backward as a blur of rust-colored fur dashed in front of his face, catching a glimpse of a snarling wolf as it passed by.

“Gods, these beasts.” He rose to his feet and ran off again. At the docks, he saw the back of his father’s broad cloak-covered shoulders boarding their longboat.

“Father!” he called out, tugging at his father’s cloak and pulling him back onto the dock. Samas looked down at him, his pale blue eyes softer than he’d expected, but still stern and stubborn.

“Son, we need to leave. Board the ship, now,” his father said, pushing him toward the plank to board the longboat. 

Gilly shrugged him off and screamed, “No!”

“What did you say to me, boy?” 

Samas never grew angry, at least not belligerent in the way the Wolf King did. In some ways, that made him all the more terrifying.

“We cannot just simply sail back to Blackhelm, father. If we do not lend our men, Avald will perish. The village will be burned to the ground, and the draugar will feast on them.” 

“And we will let them, boy. The Wolf Clan does not deserve our warriors,” his father spoke, touching his shoulder. But yet again, Gilly shrugged him off, his resolve unwavering.

“Will you look a Wolf mother in the face as she watches an undead dog feast on her children and say the same words?” he spat.

His father’s face hardened. “Aye, I will.”

“And what of the Raven mothers who will come after her?”

For once, his father did not have a response. He stopped for a long silence, and Gilly feared his father might strike him. Finally, he sighed and reached down to try and pick him up by the armpits. Gilly stepped back, putting his hands up in defeat.

Gilly cursed under his breath. His father was not going to relent. 

He continued, “If you will not stay for the Wolf Clan, what of Featherless? She is still in the woods. We cannot leave without her, surely.” 

“We will leave her here. If the draugar are already upon the village, that means they’ve swept the forest and mountains first. If she is not here, she’s already dead.” 

Gilly’s eyes went wide, a pang of heartache stinging him with such a force, he grasped his chest. 

“No, I will not leave her to the necromancers. You must find her. She is your daughter.” 

“That bastard is no daughter of mine.” 

In an instant, rage blinded him. Steam filled his body, his nerves, his face simmering with red-embarrassment—for his father, for the man he was related to, the man he was meant to learn from. In a flash, he had dashed away, the sound of his father yelling after him fading beneath the clanks of armor and weapons and the snarls of wolves. He hurried for the forest, in just a few moments arriving at Featherless’ campsite. In the distance, wolves and warriors clashed against undead beasts, but the draugar hadn’t reached this close to the Avald woods. Not yet, at least.

“Featherless!” he called out, his small voice echoing along the mountain-range and back at him. “Featherless, I’m here! Where are you?” 

Panic surged into his bones, his mind swirling with morbid thoughts.

“Sister!” 

For a moment, he stopped his screaming to listen. There was nothing, but then, deep within the woods, a small copper-colored dot emerged, quickly moving toward him.

“Fox!” Gilly called out, bending down as his sister’s fox scampered toward him and into his arms, whimpering. “Fox, what’s wrong? Where’s Featherless?” 

He held the small beast up, examining her. She appeared unharmed—a good sign—but she was terrified. 

Gilly peered up, unease filling his stomach, daring not even a breath as he trained his eyes on the gaping maw of the forest. There, he found his answer. A single blackened form—no, hundreds—poured out from the woods: Draugar.

Animals of all kinds, half decayed, descended upon him as he turned to run. His muscles pulsed with adrenaline, sending him forward as his mind flooded with terror. Fox jumped from his arms, darting off. Her small form was much faster than him through the deep snow. In an instant, he was alone. 

As an undead lynx sunk its fangs into his calf, he screamed, his voice filling the air with such a force that the snow around him was swept into the echoes. He turned and held out his hand, a small, scarred rune carved into his palm activating. The resulting blast sent the draug, and other beasts around it, flying back. He tried to stand, but his leg was damaged in such a way that it buckled and bent, nearly snapping in two as he tried to run. He dragged his limp flesh as another draug—a hawk—descended onto him, and he screamed again. 

“Featherless!”

He flipped around, the draug’s beak shattering as she rammed his fist into it. The runes carved into his hands were incredibly useful, but they wouldn’t be enough against the dozens of draugar that surrounded him. Another draug, a large bear, barreled toward him, mouth opened wide in anticipation. He closed his eyes and prepared for death.

Or so he thought. A flash of silver fur flew past his face, kicking cold snow up into his face. A pack of oversized wolves descended on them in a flash, ripping the draugar to pieces. One wolf—bigger than the rest with gray-white fur and black eyes—lunged at the bear before him, sending it tumbling into a distant tree. 

A warrior, who had been riding the wolf, leapt off and rolled in front of him, holding her sword out to shield herself. In an instant, the woman—with long white hair fitted into dozens of thick braids—slashed her greatsword through a draug, splitting it in half like firewood, bits of blood and bone flying everywhere. The warrior lacerated two more draugar with unseen swiftness, blood spraying in spectacular fashion right before Gilly’s eyes. The woman’s muscles rippled—with excitement or strength, Gilly couldn’t tell, but this was a warrior. Likely one of the Wolf Clan’s best. Her shoulders were broad, her biceps contoured with well-built muscles, her legs strong enough to break the ground beneath her.

After clearing the nearby draugar, the woman turned to him, then kneeled at his side, examining his leg. Surprise flooded Gilly’s expression when he gazed upon her chiseled features, her green eyes peering into him with concern and softness. This was the Wolf-King’s daughter, Aelif, of House Stormgaard. 

She smiled at him and asked, “Are you alright there, little Raven?”