Tom did not arrive.
Not on the fifth day.
Not on the seventh.
Not on the tenth.
Each dawn, Aren watched the southern road.
Each dusk, it remained empty.
Fear grew quietly.
Like rot.
On the twelfth day, riders came.
Three.
Bloodied.
Broken.
Only one lived long enough to speak.
"Ambush… near Blackpine Pass…"
Then he died.
Lysa slammed her fist into the wall.
"They knew," she said. "Someone told them."
Aren closed his eyes.
Tom.
Brave.
Loyal.
Gone.
Because of secrets.
Grief hardened into resolve.
"No more shadows," Aren said. "We strike openly."
He summoned every captain.
Every scout.
Every courier.
"The truth goes south," he declared. "By ten routes. Ten witnesses."
Copies were made.
Seals verified.
Signatures compared.
The forgery exposed.
Messengers rode in all directions.
Some would die.
Enough would live.
Draven attacked again.
Desperate.
Furious.
They were repelled.
But losses mounted.
Winter's end was bloodier than its start.
Weeks later, answers returned.
From Edric.
From merchants.
From priests.
From minor lords.
All confirmed.
Varyn had betrayed them.
Sold secrets.
For gold.
For promises.
For fear.
Rowan's reply finally came.
Written in shaking hand.
I did not know.
I swear.
He is arrested.
Come home.
Aren read it twice.
Then burned it.
Not in anger.
In acceptance.
Caelis warned him.
"Returning is dangerous."
"Staying is worse," Aren replied.
They prepared to leave Frostgate.
Repairs made.
Command passed.
Farewells spoken.
Graves marked.
Before departing, Aren stood where Tom had last saluted.
He placed a small carved wolf there.
"For courage," he whispered.
Truth had cost him a boy.
A friend.
A piece of himself.
And more would be demanded.
Soon.