The snows had begun to crack and run, slipping from the black stone walls of Nottingham's keep like melting wax.
Ice still clung in jagged teeth along the battlements, but the ground below was softening, mud where once had been iron frost, rivulets where there had been silence.
The gates creaked open.
From the shadow of the fortress, Vetrúlfr strode forth.
His wolfskin cloak dragged against the thawing earth, matted with the filth of winter, yet his armor gleamed as though the frost itself had polished it.
The helm beneath his arm caught the pale sunlight, its iron shimmering with wave-like lines.
Behind him, a horn sounded, a deep, rolling note that shook ravens from their roosts.
Men poured from the keep and its winter camp.
Mail rattled, shields clattered, hooves struck the softened ground as horses were led from their pens.
They had endured the long dark: leaner, yes, but harder, sharper. Wolves starved in winter only grew hungrier for spring.
