Morning came gray and heavy with mist. Inside the Ironfang wall, the air was warm and thick with the smell of burning pine. Smoke curled upward through the vents, drawn cleanly into the morning sky. The tribe stirred quietly, still heavy with sleep, while in the yard near the gate, the riders gathered. Rika stood with Ashpaw close to the heavy timber door, her wolf’s fur catching the light of the torches. One by one, the others joined her until all eleven were ready. Grub mounted Sable, pulling his hood into place. Their breath misted faintly in the warm air. Dravak stood near the hearth with Kesh and Throk beside him, the glow of the fire painting the edges of his iron teeth. He watched the riders before speaking. “Bring back captives, not corpses. Hunt smart. Return whole. Rika met his eyes and gave a firm nod. “We will.”

  When the door was swung away from its place, a rush of cold air rolled in, smelling of thawing snow, wet bark, and rain. The wolves shifted at the scent, tails flicking, muscles tensing. Rika gave a sharp whistle, and Ashpaw surged forward through the opening. The rest followed, padding out into the mist. The door closed behind them, sealing the warmth of the den inside. Beyond the wall, the world was pale and quiet. The thaw was deepening. Patches of brown earth broke through the snow, slick and dark. Icicles hung from branches like old teeth, dripping slow and steady. The wind carried the scent of pine and mud instead of frost.

  They moved north, following narrow gullies between the ridges. Each rider knew the rhythm now: silence, spacing, and watchfulness. The wolves ran smooth and low, their paws soundless over the softened ground. By midday, they found tracks. A line of bootprints crossed a thawing stream, fresh and sharp. Rika dismounted, crouched, and brushed the mud aside with a gloved hand. “Six,” she said. “Maybe seven. They’re dragging sleds. Grub nodded, tracing the edges of the prints. “An hour ahead. Maybe less.”

  They followed the trail until the faint scrape of wood and murmur of voices reached them.

  Six Red Tusk hunters came into view, trudging along a narrow streambed. The ice there had broken into shards, water running dark and cold between them. The hunters hauled two sleds heavy with meat, the smell of blood and thawed hide drifting up from the loads. Rika gave a silent signal. The riders fanned out and closed in. The wolves moved with perfect precision. Snow and water exploded upward as they struck, the sound of the attack swallowed by the forest’s hush. The Red Tusks barely had time to shout. One swung his spear and missed. Ashpaw bowled him over, pinning him by the throat. Another tried to run but found Sable blocking his path, teeth bared.

  It ended fast, like all the others. No one died this time. Six Red Tusks knelt bound beside their sleds, heads low, breathing hard. The meat still steamed faintly from where it had been butchered that morning. “Three riders take them back,” Rika ordered. “The rest stay. We keep hunting.” Three Ironfangs nodded and dismounted and began tying the captives together in pairs, fixing them to the sled ropes. They would carry both prisoners and meat back to the den. The remaining six riders stayed with Rika and Grub, eyes scanning the treeline for any sign of movement. As the escort set off, Rika turned her gaze to the north. The ridges rose higher there, dark with trees and mist.

  “Another hunting trail crosses the valley ahead,” she said. “We’ll take it. They’ll send larger groups after losing this many. We strike before they learn to hide.” Grub met her eyes briefly. “The more they fear, the tighter they’ll hold their ground.” Rika’s tone stayed even. “Then we’ll break that hold before it hardens.” The wolves shifted, restless, ready to run again. Rika gave a low whistle, and the Fangs of Winter moved out once more, fading into the mist of the northern trees. The thaw deepened as they rode. Snow fell in heavy clumps from the branches. Water trickled beneath the ice, carving paths unseen. The world was softening, and so were the edges between triumph and danger.

  By late afternoon, the mist had thinned into drifting veils. Water ran in thin streams down the rocks, and the smell of damp pine filled the air. The wolves padded quietly through the softening snow, their breath steaming as they climbed a low ridge. Rika raised her hand, signaling a halt. Below, in a narrow hollow, a cluster of Red Tusk hunters moved slowly around a fire. Eight of them. Two sleds loaded heavy with meat. The scene looked almost identical to the one they had struck that morning.

  Too identical.

  Grub’s eyes narrowed. The fire burned clean, but the air above it did not shimmer right. He frowned, scanning the snow. The wind was still. The drifts unbroken.

  “Something’s wrong,” he murmured. Rika looked down the slope. The Red Tusks below laughed and gestured, blades glinting in the fading light. “They’re waiting for us to see them,” Grub said quietly. His hand brushed Sable’s neck, steadying her. “It’s bait.” Before he could finish the thought, the snow around them erupted.

  Figures burst from hidden trenches, nets already in hand. A horn split the quiet, sharp and close. The wolves lunged, snarling, but the first nets were already in the air. One caught a rider, dragging him from his saddle. Another tangled two wolves together. Spears flew from the ridge above.

  “Retreat!” Rika shouted, her voice cutting through the chaos.

  Grub turned Sable toward the trapped riders. “Go! Move!” he shouted. He pulled a smooth stone from the pouch at his belt and began shaping it. The mana flared hot, and a single Stone Spear launched, cutting clean through a falling net and shattering it apart. Steam hissed from his hands, but he already had another stone in hand. He cast again, this time clipping the edge of a second net and knocking it off its path. A wolf rolled clear of it, claws tearing at the ropes as she scrambled to her feet.

  A Red Tusk broke from cover and hurled a spear. It caught one wolf in the shoulder. The animal stumbled, snarling, and her rider slid off, slashing the shaft free with his knife. Blood streaked the snow, but the wolf kept her footing.

  Another hunter charged with an axe, swinging at a rider’s leg. The blow glanced off a thigh, opening a shallow cut. The rider kicked the goblin in the chest and vaulted onto a passing wolf, gripping the harness tight. The earlier drills Grub had ordered, mounting and remounting at a run, now saved their lives.

  A wolf went down tangled in a net, her rider thrown clear. Two others circled back, snapping through the cords with their teeth, freeing her before the Red Tusks could close in. Another wolf bolted uphill carrying two riders, while one raced riderless beside them, fur matted with blood.

  Grub cast again, the spell forming sharp and fast. The Stone Spear sliced through the haft of a Red Tusk spear aimed at Rika, splitting it in two. The backlash from Miscast sent another puff of heat up his arms, the air shimmering before the effect dissipated.

  “Run!” Grub shouted. Sable lunged forward, breaking through a wall of slush and tangled rope. A Red Tusk charged from the flank, club raised. Grub twisted in the saddle, blocking the blow with his staff, but another net caught him from behind. The weight dragged him hard off of Sable and he fell to the ground. Sable wheeled, teeth flashing, and snapped at the nearest captor. Grub’s voice rasped out, low and harsh. “Go.”

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  The wolf hesitated, growled once, but obeyed. She bounded uphill toward Rika and the retreating riders.

  Hands seized Grub’s arms. The world tilted, snow filling his vision. He heard Rika’s voice once more in the distance, ordering the retreat to full speed, and the answering howl of the wolves. Then a club struck the side of his head, and everything went black.

  The forest swallowed them in silence. Mist clung low over the ground, curling through the bare trunks where winter’s hold was fading. Runoff threaded the ruts and roots where ice had broken. The wolves ran hard, muscles rippling under their slick, matted fur. Steam rose from their bodies where blood met cold air. Behind them, the echo of horns still drifted faintly through the trees, swallowed by distance and the wet hush of the thawing woods.

  Rika rode at the front, her spear dark with blood, her jaw set. She did not look back. When the last sounds of pursuit faded, she slowed and raised a hand. The remaining riders drew up behind her, panting and bloodied. The wolves stood heaving, their flanks streaked where cuts and shallow gashes marred their hides. One limped slightly, favoring a foreleg wrapped hastily with a strip of cloth. Another bore the mark of a spear graze along its ribs.

  They counted in low voices. Eleven wolves. Ten riders. Only one name was missing.

  Grub.

  Rika’s breath came hard in the cold. She turned in the saddle, eyes sweeping over her people. One rider’s arm was bound tight against his chest, the fabric already stained through. Another had a gash on his temple, dried blood crusting in his hair. None spoke. Sable padded up behind them, fur bristling, muzzle dark with blood. She came alone. “We move,” she said quietly.

  The wolves ran silent through the thawed dark, breath low and steady, paws throwing up wet earth where the snow had pulled back. The air smelled of damp bark and old ice. By the time the riders reached the Ironfang wall, mud striped legs and bellies, and blood had dried black on fur and leather.

  The bar lifted. The door swung inward. Warmth rolled out to meet them, heavy with smoke and meat. They filed inside, eleven wolves with ten riders, one saddle empty.

  Dravak was already striding from the main hearth, iron teeth catching the firelight. His eyes took in the torn harness, the resin-smeared wraps, the blood on cloak and flank. His voice cracked the space. “Report. Now.”

  Rika slid from Ashpaw, hit the stone hard, and stayed upright by force of will. A cut showed along her hairline, dried and clotted. She saluted once with an open hand.

  “It was a trap,” she said, steady. “We took six alive at the stream by midday and sent them back with three riders. We pressed on with those that remained. Near dusk we found eight by a fire with a loaded sled. It looked like a staged party, too clean to be chance. Grub felt something wrong and started to call the retreat when nets burst from the snow. Lines were hidden under the crust, and a horn sounded from the ridge to bring the rest down on us.” Her riders gathered behind her as she spoke, faces set, clothes torn. One leaned on another, left arm bound from elbow to wrist in tack leather. A wolf limped past with a foreleg wrapped thick in resin cloth, claws clicking softly. “We cut as many nets as we could,” Rika went on. “Grub used his magics to slice two from the air and turned a third aside. Wolves tore free and riders worked in pairs. Two were thrown and remounted at a run like we drilled. Three times I saw a rider haul another across a saddle so two rode one wolf until they could trade off. Spears and axes hit us, but none clean enough to kill. We pulled away in pieces, then regrouped in the pines.”

  She drew a breath. “A net took Grub at the legs and shoulder. Sable went for the hands dragging him. He called her off and she broke to me. They clubbed him down and hauled him away. We could not break through without losing half the line.” The hall was quiet except for the crack of the hearth and the low huff of wolves. Dravak held her gaze for three long beats, then nodded once.

  “You did not break.” His voice softened a shade. “Plans rarely run clean. Under horns and nets, you kept the line and brought your riders home. That is what a leader does.” Throk came forward and clapped her on the shoulder. She hissed in pain despite herself, and he either did not notice or did not care. “You and your Fangs are blooded now,” he said with a rough grin. “True warriors.” Rika dipped her head once, jaw tight. “But we left a man behind. We must get him back, Chief.”

  Dravak turned, voice carrying. “Get them food. Feed the wolves. See to wounds.”

  Movement surged. Harness buckles snapped open. Saddles thumped. Wolves were led to water and meat, heads dropping to troughs with tired relief. Riders peeled off cloaks and shirts. Cuts across ribs and shoulders, a gouge along one thigh, a deep slice at a calf where an axe had glanced. Nothing serious enough to be fatal, but all needed hands. A handful of goblins who had watched Grub work stepped in with resin cloths and boiled water. They had the motions, but not the same touch. Cloths were pressed, resin warmed by the fire and smeared to seal edges. Splints were tied firm. It held, but it was rough. Wrappings were tighter than Grub would have made them. One rider hissed as a bandage pinched and said nothing. It would have to do.

  From the rear, soft eyes watched through bars. Seventeen Red Tusk captives stood or sat in their cages. They had been fed and given water. Their cuts were wrapped with the same resin cloths. No one mocked them. No one spared them a word either. They stared as Ironfang riders bled on the floor and wolves licked at wounds and bowls alike, and the tribe moved past them as if they were stacked wood.

  Rika checked each of her riders in turn, palm to shoulder, palm to chest, eyes on wounds and hands that still shook a little. Ashpaw pressed her head into Rika’s ribs and sighed, then stood while a strip was bound around her foreleg.

  Dravak returned to Rika when the worst was settled. “You will sleep,” he said. “At dawn we plan. The thaw is ours. We use it.” Rika nodded once, exhaustion like stone in her bones. “Yes, Chief.”

  Across the hall, a wolf whined as resin touched raw skin. A young goblin muttered the order Grub used to give and eased the strip until the sound stopped. It was serviceable. It was not Grub.

  Water ticked in the vents with the slow patience of the season turning. The warmth in the den held. Outside, the world was wet and waking. Inside, the Ironfang set their jaws and worked in silence while seventeen pairs of eyes watched from the cages.

  Grub woke to motion.

  Cold bit at his skin first, a thin, sharp cold that clung even through the damp of the ropes binding his wrists and ankles. His head throbbed where the club had struck. Every heartbeat sent a pulse of ache through his skull. The world swayed. Wet earth splashed against his cheek.

  He was being carried.

  Two Red Tusks walked ahead, hauling the poles of a crude litter that dragged over the soft ground. Snow lingered only in shady pockets under roots and stone. Mud streaked the sled, dark with grit. Half a dozen more Red Tusks paced around him with spears on their shoulders, eyes cutting to the trees as if wolves might boil out of them again. Grub kept his body slack and let his breath come slow and shallow. Unconscious men did not tense. Unconscious men did not study. The forest smelled of wet bark and old ice. New shoots pressed through the soil. A light mist hung between the trunks. Spring was coming fast.

  They rounded a bend, and the camp rose ahead. The Red Tusk den sat under a sheer wall of stone. A palisade of sharpened logs enclosed a broad clearing at the cliff’s foot, the wood dark with pitch. Smoke rose from multiple fires. Shelters leaned against the rock, hides stretched between poles. Voices carried. Metal clinked. The place felt crowded and hard. They dragged him through the gate. Grub counted under his lashes. Fires. Sentries. Two rough platforms inside the wall. Gaps where stakes didn’t meet clean. Paths worn bare in the thaw. He kept the map behind his eyes and did not let it show on his face.

  A spear butt jabbed his ribs. He grunted, and one of the goblins hauling the litter snorted. “Still breathing. Chief wants him that way.” Grub’s staff was lashed to one pole with his own belt strap. Plain wood, scarred from use. That was good. He would need it if the chance came.

  They stopped near the center fire. A figure towered there, and for a breath Grub thought he was looking at a giant. Then the details settled. The leader was not goblin at all, but something larger and heavier, furred from throat to wrist, shoulders broad enough to shade the flames. Two long tusks curved from his mouth, stained a deep red that gave the tribe its name. His yellow eyes were steady and cold. Grub marked the height without meaning to—at least a foot and a half taller than Dravak. Nearly twice Grub’s size. Bugbear. Around him stood four, maybe five hobgoblins in piecemeal armor, smaller than Dravak but broader than any common goblin. They watched with flat faces and ready hands.

  “Drop him,” the bugbear said.

  The litter hit the mud. Grub let his head loll. The world rang inside his skull. “Bind him to the post,” the bugbear added. “Keep him breathing.” They hauled Grub upright and slammed his back against a rough-hewn stake near the edge of the clearing. Ropes bit his wrists as they tied them high over his head. His ankles were cinched together. A kick spattered his legs with muck. Laughter followed, and then footsteps faded back to the fires.

  Grub lifted his head, inch by inch. Pain rode behind his eyes, but his thoughts stayed clear enough. He looked past the flames and counted again. He listened to the rhythm of patrol boots. He watched the hobgoblins trade a few quiet words, then split to different corners of the camp. He drew one slow breath, then another. Somewhere beyond the wall, water ran. The season was turning.

  Heavy steps approached. The bugbear stopped an arm’s length away and studied Grub up and down, head tilted slightly as if curious about something small and new. He stepped forward until he was close to Grub, then crouched so they were face to face. From this distance, Grub could smell the rancid breath wafting warmly over him. He stopped himself from gagging, and just studied the man.

  Up close, the red on his tusks looked like pigment worked into old grooves. The fur at his jaw was braided with bits of bone and metal. His voice, when it came, was low and controlled.

  “We have a lot to talk about, little goblin.”