Dawn broke over the North Wilds. The air held the scent of wet stone and thawing earth, and the first mist of morning clung to the slopes like smoke. Snowmelt ran in thin threads down the ridges above the Ironfang wall, gathering into slow trickles that whispered of spring. Winter had not vanished, but it was dying by inches. At the base of the wall, the tribe gathered. The Fangs of Winter were ready. Wolves stood harnessed and steady, breath fogging in the chill. Rika checked each strap and clasp with methodical care while her riders made last adjustments to their gear. Grub sat mounted on Sable near the front, the wolf’s fur streaked with pale frost, his satchel secured tight at his side. The rest of the tribe watched in silence, the low hum of the hearths inside echoing faintly through the open door.

  But before the hunt could begin, Dravak oversaw another task.

  The five Duskroot who had chosen to leave stood before the gathered tribe. Each had been given a fur cloak, a spear, and a small pack of food prepared the night before. The morning light caught the uncertainty on their faces as they glanced toward the forest beyond the wall. One of them, a short, broad goblin with a jagged scar on his cheek, hesitated as he took his pack. “I changed my mind,” he said, voice rough but steady. “I will stay. I was wrong to walk away from this fire.” Two others shifted, looking between their friend and the forest. After a brief silence, they stepped forward as well. “Us too,” one said. “We talked it through. The wild will still be there if this fails. But this… this might be something worth fighting for.” Dravak regarded them from the threshold. “Then you are Ironfang now,” he said simply. “Stand with your kin. Take back your spears and your furs. You will work, fight, and eat beside your tribe.” The remaining two said nothing. They bowed their heads slightly, took their packs, and stepped past the wall into the fog. The sound of their boots faded quickly into the dripping hush of the woods beyond. When the door closed, it did so with a deep, final thud that echoed through the den.

  Kesh marked the new count on her slate and glanced up. “Sixty-two,” she said. “Counting those who changed their minds.” Dravak looked over the gathered Ironfangs, his iron teeth catching faint glints of gray light. “Sixty-two,” he repeated. “That's good. Very good.” His gaze shifted to Rika, who now stood at the head of the riders with one hand resting lightly on Ashpaw’s shoulder. Grub waited beside her, calm and watchful. The wolves stamped restlessly, eager to move. Dravak raised his voice so all could hear. “You know your orders. Strike fast. Bring captives. Return before their horns sound. The thaw has begun, and the forest opens its roads again.” Rika met his gaze and gave a short nod. “We’ll return with captives and meat.” Dravak’s lips pulled into the faintest hint of a smile. “Go then, Fangs of Winter. Let the Red Tusks learn what hunts in the thaw.”

  Rika gave a sharp whistle. Ashpaw surged forward, and the others followed in unison. The wolves poured through the wall gate, paws splashing through the soft, wet snow, their breath rising in steady plumes. Grub turned in the saddle once, glancing back at the tribe gathered in the doorway, before lowering his head against the cold and riding out with the pack. The door in the wall closed behind them with a hollow thud. The warmth of the cavern was left behind. Ahead lay the thawing wilds and the first hunt of spring.

  The forest swallowed them whole.

  The sound of the Ironfang den faded until only the rhythm of paws on wet ground remained. The thaw had reached deep into the trees now. Snow no longer cracked underfoot; it sagged, heavy and soft, breaking into slush where the wolves passed. The air smelled of pine sap and damp soil, sharp and clean after weeks of cold silence. They rode in a loose formation, spaced far enough to move quietly but close enough to strike together if needed. The wolves moved with effortless grace, shoulders rolling under slick fur, paws finding sure purchase even on half-frozen ground. Steam rose faintly from their backs as the morning light caught them between the branches. Rika led from the front, her posture low and alert in the saddle. Her eyes flicked constantly from the ridges to the underbrush, reading the land like a map drawn in motion. Grub followed near the center, gaze steady but distant, watching how the thaw reshaped the forest around them.

  Icicles dripped from the branches above, falling with soft, rhythmic clicks. Water threaded between roots, carving narrow rivulets beside their path. The wolves’ paws left deep impressions that slowly filled again, and where sunlight broke through the canopy, the snow was already giving way to mud and patches of green. Grub said little. He had no need for his magic here; it was a tool for stone and shelter, not the open wild, not yet. His role was to watch, to learn the terrain, and to be ready when the fighting began. He carried his staff across his lap, fingers brushing the worn wood as if testing its balance.

  The wolves’ breathing filled the air in a slow, steady rhythm. The pack’s unity was palpable, each rider matching pace to the next without a word. Every sound mattered now: the shift of branches, the rustle of brush, the faint trickle of unseen water. They passed beneath high ridges where the Red Tusks were said to hunt. The ground was uneven, pocked with the remains of old snares and sled tracks that had frozen deep and only now began to fade. Rika slowed the group and raised her hand for silence.

  “Fresh,” she murmured, pointing to a line of shallow depressions leading west along a narrow streambed. “Six sets, maybe seven. Drag marks behind them.” Grub studied the ground, then nodded once. “Sled. Heavy from the depth. They’ve been moving slow.” Rika gave a sharp gesture, and the riders split to flank the trail. The wolves lowered their heads, silent as shadows among the pines. The thaw had turned the world soft, but danger still lived in the quiet.

  The hunt had begun.

  Rika raised her hand, and the riders came to a silent halt. The wolves crouched low, ears and noses twitching as they caught a scent. Grub moved forward on Sable, her lithe frame gliding through the underbrush. He heard the slow rhythm of footsteps and the creak of wood on ice. He returned and pointed toward the sound. “They’re close,” he whispered. Rika nodded and gestured for them to move out. They crept through the trees, spreading along a low ridge. Below, a narrow creek wound through the thawing forest. Six Red Tusk hunters trudged along the bank, dragging a sled laden with frozen game. The goblins laughed softly, unaware of the eyes watching from the shadows.

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  Rika studied the slope and the current below. The creek was shallow, its surface broken by slush and dark water. The Red Tusks were trapped between the banks. She gave a sharp signal, then pointed to the flanks. The riders split without a word. Wolves slipped through the trees, circling until they formed a wide crescent. The air held still, broken only by the quiet rush of water and the groan of runners. When the lead hunter bent to check a snare, Rika gave a short whistle, and the forest erupted.

  Ashpaw leapt from the ridge, hitting the creekbed in a spray of slush. The other wolves came behind, dark shapes streaking between the trees. The Red Tusks shouted, fumbling for weapons already too late. One managed a cry before Rika’s spear struck him square in the chest. Grub stayed astride Sable, staff ready. He swept it across a lunging Red Tusk, knocking the goblin sprawling before another rider pinned him down. One dropped his axe and froze, eyes wide as Ashpaw’s teeth stopped inches from his throat. The rest tried to flee but found wolves already blocking the banks.

  It was over in moments.

  The creek ran dark with melted snow and blood. One Red Tusk lay dead, his body half-submerged. The other five were forced to their knees, bound with leather cords and stripped of weapons. Their sled sat beside them, piled high with frozen meat. Rika surveyed the scene. “Take the sled,” she ordered. “We bring back meat as well as captives. Two riders escort them to the den. The rest stay with me.” Two riders stepped forward, tying the captives and fastening the sled’s ropes to their wolves’ harnesses. “We’ll move fast,” one said. “They’ll live.” “Make sure of it,” Rika replied. The escort turned east, wolves hauling the sled through the snow. The captives stumbled behind them, heads low and silent.

  Rika watched until they vanished, then turned to her remaining riders. “Form up. We move north. The Red Tusks will have other parties nearby. The thaw makes them bold.” Grub swung back onto Sable, glancing toward the prints already filling with water. “Bold,” he said quietly, “but not careful.” Rika’s eyes met his, then shifted forward. “Good. That makes them easier to find.”

  The wolves moved again, fading into the forest. The only signs of the ambush were a dead goblin, a torn snare, and the soft whisper of meltwater where blood met earth. By afternoon, the light had turned pale and flat across the forest. The snow sagged under its own weight, streaked with streams of thaw. The smell of wet bark and moss hung thick in the air.

  Rika slowed the formation to a crawl. The wolves spread along a ridge above a shallow ravine. Below, faint voices carried through the trees.

  Eight Red Tusk hunters trudged along the ravine floor, sleds piled high with meat. The sleds groaned under the weight, leaving deep gouges in the mud. They moved slow, tired, unaware of the eyes above them. Rika studied the path. The ravine sloped gently on one side and dropped steep on the other, creating a natural funnel. The perfect place to strike. She raised her arm, then pointed down the slope. Her riders fanned out, wolves crouched low, tails twitching. Grub kept to the middle, watching her hand, waiting for the signal.

  The sound of dripping water filled the stillness. Then Rika gave a short, sharp whistle.

  The wolves surged over the ridge like a living wave.

  They hit the ravine with force, snow and mud flying. The first Red Tusk shouted in alarm, trying to raise his spear, but Ashpaw was already on him. Another spun, swinging wildly with an axe, and caught his comrade instead. Blood sprayed the rocks. The rest broke ranks, scrambling to escape, but the wolves were faster. The Ironfang riders moved as one, cutting them off, forcing them down and binding their arms. One tried to run along the slope, slipped, and fell hard, his neck snapping with a dull crack. Within moments, it was done. Two Red Tusks lay dead. Six more knelt bound and shaking, their breath misting in the cold.

  Rika surveyed the scene. “Take the meat,” she said. “Nothing goes to waste. We return with both food and prisoners.” Grub climbed down, checking the captives for wounds. He made sure none were bleeding out before nodding. The sleds were lashed to the wolves, and the Red Tusks tied together in a single line.

  Then it came. A sound rose from somewhere beyond the trees. A horn. High and sharp, it split the forest air and echoed off the cliffs. Rika froze, eyes snapping west. The riders went still, wolves bristling. “They know,” she said quietly. Grub looked to the treeline. “Someone must have been trailing the hunters.” Rika’s jaw tightened. “Then we move. Back to the den. Now.” The wolves turned at her command and moved with a steady purposeful pace. The sound of the horn hung faintly behind them, stretching long and thin like the cry of a dying thing.

  The Red Tusks now knew that wolves hunted their woods.

  By the time the Ironfang riders reached the den wall, the sun was sinking behind the ridges. The light had gone thin and copper-colored, glinting off the wet stone and the slick hides of the wolves. The smell of blood and thawing earth hung in the air. The heavy wooden door was opened to admit them, and warm air spilled out from the cavern beyond. Fires burned bright inside, their smoke rising steady through the vents. The sounds of voices quieted as the riders entered, bringing with them the scent of the forest and the cold bite of the outside world. Dravak waited just beyond the threshold. His eyes caught the torchlight as he watched them dismount. Rika stepped forward, her armor streaked with mud, her breath still sharp in her throat. Behind her, the wolves crouched low, tired but unhurt. Two sleds followed, laden with frozen meat and bound captives.

  Dravak’s voice filled the entry hall. “Report.”

  Rika’s tone was clipped and steady. “Two raids. Eleven taken alive. Three dead. We brought back their meat as well.” She hesitated briefly, then added, “A horn sounded after the second strike. They know they are hunted.” Dravak’s expression did not change. He studied her, then glanced toward the prisoners. The captured Red Tusks stared at the ground, bound but still defiant. Their breath steamed in the warmer air of the cave. “Good work,” Dravak said at last. “Feed them. Bind their wounds if needed. Rest your wolves and your riders. You hunt again at graylight.” Rika inclined her head. “Understood.”

  The Builders moved forward, taking the sleds to the storage alcove, while a few Ironfangs led the captives toward the cages near the back of the cavern where the other prisoners were held. The smell of thawed meat and wet fur followed in their wake.

  As Rika stripped off her furs, Grub joined her. His face was calm, though the lines of weariness showed. “They will be more wary tomorrow,” he said quietly. Rika nodded once. “Let them be. We’ll still find their weak points.” Dravak turned his gaze toward the main fire. “They will watch for us now,” he said, voice low. “That means we move sharper, not slower. Let them fear the night.” The riders dispersed to eat and rest. The wolves curled together near the fires, their bellies full, their eyes half-lidded but alert. The Ironfang den felt alive in a way it had not before, filled with the sound of movement and purpose. Yet beneath the pride that ran through the tribe, a thin thread of unease coiled quietly in the shadows.

  Outside, the forest lay still under the fading light. The snow continued to melt, and somewhere in the far distance, a single horn’s echo lingered, carried faintly by the wind.