The snow fell softly over Thorne Hollow, muffling the world in silence.
Elyas Thorne knelt by the frozen river, his breath misting in the dawn air. The water was so clear he could see the stones beneath, worn smooth by time. He plunged his hands into the icy current, numbing his fingers as he scrubbed the blood from his knuckles.
*Again.*
His father's voice echoed in his head. *"A warrior's hands must be steady, boy. Not just for killing—for living."*
Elyas clenched his fists. The cut on his palm burned, a reminder of yesterday's brawl. He'd been reckless. Again.
A crunch of snow behind him.
"You're going to freeze to death before you ever swing a sword properly."
Elyas didn't turn. "Go away, Kael."
Kaela Silverstream snorted, kicking snow at him. "Your mother sent me. Breakfast is ready."
Elyas stood, shaking the water from his hands. Kaela was already walking away, her fur-lined cloak swaying with each step. At sixteen, she moved like a wolf—light on her feet, always watching. She wasn't from the Hollow. She wasn't even from the lowlands.
She was Northern Clan. And that meant trouble.
The Thorne homestead was alive with warmth and noise. Elyas's younger sister, Lira, was already at the table, shoveling porridge into her mouth like she hadn't eaten in days. His mother, Elara, stirred a pot over the hearth, her dark hair streaked with silver.
His father was gone. Again.
"Where is he?" Elyas asked, though he already knew.
Elara didn't look up. "The border watch."
Kaela leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Baldur's men have been spotted near the pass."
A cold weight settled in Elyas's gut. Baldur Ironhand. The Butcher of the South.
Lira looked up, her big eyes wide. "Will they come here?"
"No," Elyas said too quickly.
Kaela met his gaze. She didn't lie.
The village elder, Orik, was waiting outside. His face was grim.
"Elyas. You're needed."
The Hollow's men were gathering in the square, their breaths fogging in the cold. Some had spears. Most had scythes, axes—whatever they could grab.
Orik's voice was low. "Scouts say Baldur's vanguard is less than a day's march away."
Elyas's hands curled into fists. "Why?"
"Does it matter?" Kaela muttered.
Orik ignored her. "They're burning everything in their path. We're next."
Elyas looked at the faces around him—farmers, blacksmiths, boys barely older than him. None of them were soldiers.
"We run," he said.
Kaela scoffed. "And go where?"
"North. To your people."
Her eyes darkened. "The North doesn't take refugees."
Orik exhaled. "Then we fight."
They didn't have time.
The warning horn sounded just past midday.
Elyas was on the ridge when he saw them—a black tide of steel and fur cresting the hill. The banner of the Ironhand flew high, a snarling wolf on a blood-red field.
Kaela grabbed his arm. "We need to go. Now."
Elyas shook her off. "My family—"
"Will die if you don't *move*!"
But it was too late.
The first arrows fell like rain.
Chaos.
Smoke filled the air as the thatched roofs caught fire. Elyas sprinted through the village, his heart hammering.
*Lira. Mother.*
A scream. He turned just in time to see a man in wolf pelts drive a spear through Old Man Herin's chest.
Elyas froze.
The raider grinned, yanking the spear free. "Run, boy. It's more fun that way."
Something inside Elyas snapped.
He didn't remember drawing his dagger.
He didn't remember lunging.
But he would never forget the feel of steel sinking into flesh.
The raider gasped, stumbling back. Elyas stabbed again. And again.
Hot blood sprayed his face.
A hand grabbed his shoulder—Kaela. "Elyas! Your house—!"
He turned.
And saw the flames.
The Thornes' home was already half-consumed.
Elyas crashed through the door, the heat searing his lungs. "LIRA! MOTHER!"
No answer.
Then—a whimper.
Lira was curled under the table, her dress smoldering. Elyas grabbed her, shielding her with his body as he bolted outside.
Kaela was there, her bow drawn. "Where's Elara?"
Elyas turned back to the inferno.
And saw her.
His mother stood in the doorway, her back burning. A sword jutted from her stomach—held by a man in iron-plated armor.
Baldur Ironhand.
Their eyes met.
Elara's lips moved. *"Run."*
Then the roof collapsed.
Elyas didn't remember running.
He didn't remember the woods, the cold, the weight of Lira in his arms.
All he remembered was the snow.
And the vow he whispered into the dark.
*"I will kill him."*