The gates of Ravenhold opened without a sound.
Snow had begun to fall by the time Corvyn reached the courtyard. Thin white flakes drifted through the torchlight like ash carried on the wind.
Twenty riders waited near the stables.
No banners.
No bright armor.
Only dark cloaks and leather riding gear built for silence rather than glory.
Ser Halric Snow stood beside a tall grey horse, tightening the straps on his saddle. The older knight glanced up as Corvyn approached.
"Well," Halric said, "looks like your father finally decided to let you off the tower."
Corvyn swung easily into the saddle of his own horse, a black northern stallion named Shade.
"He said the hunt requires more than watching tonight."
Halric snorted.
"That it does."
One of the riders pulled the gate lever.
The heavy wooden doors creaked open just enough for the horses to pass through.
Beyond them, the Wolfswood waited.
Dark.
Silent.
Endless.
Halric raised a hand.
"Listen carefully," he said to the men. "No torches. No shouting. If you see something, signal first. Steel second."
A few riders nodded.
Another horn echoed faintly from somewhere within the forest.
Closer than before.
Corvyn felt the horse beneath him shift uneasily.
"Easy," he murmured, patting the stallion's neck.
Above them, two ravens glided across the snowy sky before vanishing toward the trees.
Halric noticed.
"Your birds going ahead?"
Corvyn watched their dark shapes disappear.
"They're curious," he said.
Halric grinned.
"Good. Curiosity keeps a man alive."
Then he turned his horse toward the forest path.
"Ride."
The twenty men followed him through the gates.
Hooves crunched softly against frozen snow as they moved beyond the walls of Ravenhold.
Behind them, the gates closed again.
The sound echoed across the empty hills.
Soon the keep was gone behind them, swallowed by darkness and falling snow.
The Wolfswood rose ahead like a wall of black iron.
Tall pines towered over the narrow trail, their branches heavy with snow.
The deeper they rode, the quieter the world became.
No wind.
No birds.
Only the slow rhythm of hooves.
Corvyn's eyes scanned the trees constantly.
The forest felt… wrong.
Still.
Watching.
Ser Halric raised a hand suddenly.
The riders stopped.
Ahead, the narrow path bent around a cluster of thick pines.
Halric slid down from his horse.
"Tracks," he said quietly.
Corvyn dismounted beside him.
He knelt in the snow.
Boot prints.
Many of them.
Fresh.
Not Ravaryn men.
Not hunters.
Soldiers.
Corvyn brushed snow away from one print.
The mark of a flayed man had been pressed faintly into the leather sole.
Bolton.
Halric saw it too.
"Seven hells," the knight muttered.
One of the riders shifted nervously.
"How many?"
Corvyn studied the trail carefully.
"More than twenty," he said quietly.
Halric frowned.
"Then we're outnumbered."
Corvyn stood slowly.
From somewhere deeper in the woods came the faint snap of a branch.
Everyone froze.
Another sound followed.
Soft.
Deliberate.
Not an animal.
Halric's hand moved slowly toward his sword.
Corvyn's fingers closed around the hilt of Nightfeather.
The forest had been silent moments before.
Now it felt full of unseen eyes.
And somewhere in the darkness ahead…
Something moved.