The blizzard came sudden and fierce.
Winds howled down from the northern peaks, driving snow like knives. Trees bent under the weight of frost, and visibility dropped to mere feet. Hakon's warband huddled beneath a rock outcropping, cloaked in furs, their breath fogging the air.
Torstein grunted, stamping his boots. "Feels like the gods are trying to freeze us off the mountain."
"They tried ten winters ago," Hakon replied. "Didn't work then either."
They had just finished their second raid—another outpost along Ulrich's border, burned in the dead of night. This one held more than weapons. They had taken supplies, a cache of chainmail, and—most importantly—maps of the patrol routes through the Gnarled Ridge.
But now the snow threatened to erase all paths.
Vigdis crouched beside Hakon, eyes narrowed. "We can't stay here long. If the wind shifts, our tracks will be buried—but if it stops, scouts might be close behind."
"Then we move now," Hakon said.
Rorik looked up, one eye bruised from the last skirmish. "Through the blizzard?"
"No one expects us to," Hakon said. "That's why it'll work."
The ridge was a cruel place in winter—twisting paths that vanished beneath snowdrifts, cliffs hidden behind white veils, and echoes that played tricks on even seasoned warriors. But Hakon led them without hesitation, memory guiding his steps.
He had fled through these same passes years ago, bleeding and broken, left for dead by those he once called brothers.
Now he returned a different man. Wiser. Colder. Sharper.
By dusk, they reached an old hunter's lodge, half-buried in snow but intact. Inside, they lit a small, smokeless fire. Rorik and Torstein set to boiling snow for water, while Vigdis cleaned her blades.
Hakon unfurled the stolen map across a cracked table. "Three more outposts between us and Ironmarch Pass. If we hit them in succession—each two nights apart—we can fracture Ulrich's outer line."
"Won't he see the pattern?" Torstein asked.
"He'll have to spread his forces thinner to protect the rest. Then we strike the supply chain instead."
"And after that?" Vigdis asked quietly.
Hakon didn't look up. "Then we bleed him."
But Ulrich was not idle.
Far south, in the fortress city of Feldrath, he stood above a balcony, watching the snow fall beyond his torch-lit walls. His war-priests whispered omens, his generals debated strategy, but Ulrich's gaze was fixed northward.
He held a strip of bloodied cloth in his gauntlet—gray and red, torn from Hakon's banner. Old memories stirred. The day of the betrayal. The fall of their brotherhood.
He closed his fist around the cloth.
"Let the wolf come," he said. "I'll drown him in snow and steel."
Back in the lodge, as night deepened, Hakon sat alone at the edge of the firelight, whetstone in hand, sharpening a curved dagger with deliberate strokes.
Vigdis approached quietly, her voice low. "Why this path, Hakon? You could've left. Disappeared forever. Built a life in the east."
He looked up, eyes dark.
"They killed my kin. Burned our name from the world. If I don't make them answer for that… then I never truly lived again."
Vigdis nodded once, then sat beside him in silence.
Outside, the storm raged on, but within the flames, the fire of vengeance burned hotter than any frost.