Vael lunged.
His fist cut through the air like a thrown stone—fast, furious, aimed at his father's jaw.
Kael turned his head.
The blow whistled past, striking nothing but wind.
Vael stumbled forward, momentum carrying him off-balance. Before he could recover, Kael's palm pressed against his chest and shoved—gentle by his standards, devastating by any other.
Vael hit the ground hard.
He rolled, came up on his feet, and charged again.
This time Kael caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted. Not enough to break. Just enough to remind.
Vael hissed through his teeth and dropped low, sweeping his leg toward his father's ankle.
Kael stepped over it.
Another swing. Another dodge.
Vael's breathing grew ragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
Kael's expression didn't change. He moved like water around stone—effortless, inevitable.
To him, this was no different than sparring with a child who had yet to shed his first blood.
Finally, Vael stopped. His chest heaved. His fists trembled at his sides.
"Why?" he gasped. "Why did you hurt her?"
Kael regarded him with the patience of someone who had watched countless seasons turn. "Because she lied. Because she left without word. Because she endangers us all by consorting with the capital."
"She's not—"
"You've known her less than three sunrises, boy." Kael's voice was calm, but the words cut like winter wind. "Tell me—what makes you so certain she deserves your loyalty?"
Vael straightened, though his legs still shook. "You told me to trust my instincts. You said the spirits blessed me with senses sharper than most—that what I feel is often truer than what I see."
He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"My instincts don't lie," he continued, voice steadying. "When I look at her, I don't smell deception. I don't sense malice. What I feel is... someone who's been hunted. Someone who knows what it means to lose everything. Someone like us."
He took a breath.
"You taught me that the pack isn't just blood. It's who stands with you when the snow falls and the prey runs thin. She stood with me when she didn't have to. That makes her pack."
Kael's jaw tightened.
"Enough." The word fell like a hammer. "I've had my fill of children playing at war while grown men bleed. My kindness has been mistaken for weakness, and she will answer for it."
"But—"
"Enough."
Kael's hand moved.
The backhand was swift, measured—not meant to injure, only to silence.
Vael's head snapped to the side. He stumbled but didn't fall.
"Stop."
Violet's voice cut through the tension like a knife through silk.
Both direwolves turned.
She stood straighter now, one hand pressed to her throat where Kael's grip had left faint marks. Her eyes were clear despite the pain, steady despite the fear.
"If you believe I'm untrustworthy," she said quietly, "then you have every right to think so. I left without explanation. I returned without permission. From where you stand, I am a threat."
She lowered her hand.
"But even if the whole world stands against it," her voice hardened, "I will do everything I can to protect my friend."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "You cannot protect anything."
"I know."
The admission hung in the air.
"I know I'm weak," Violet continued. "I know I'm sick. I know that in a real fight, I would die before I could draw breath to scream."
Her hands curled into fists.
"But I would rather try and fail than live with the weight of doing nothing. Regret is a slower death than any blade."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Kael moved—not toward her, but away.
He sank onto a low stool near the tent's center, one hand coming up to press against his forehead. His shoulders sagged under an invisible burden.
"I don't know anymore," he said, voice rough and low. "I was raised to believe that honor meant facing your enemy with blade drawn and spine straight. That if victory couldn't be won, then death should be met with dignity. But now..."
He trailed off.
"Now I think of my people," he continued. "The mothers. The children. The elders who have survived three harsh winters and deserve to see spring again. The thought of losing them—of watching their blood soak into snow because I was too proud to consider anything but a warrior's path..."
His hand dropped.
"That cost is too high."
Violet took a breath. "Have you chosen the refuge for your noncombatants and young?"
Kael nodded. "A valley three days north. Hidden. Defensible. We've sent scouts ahead."
"Good." Violet's voice was firm now. "Change it. Choose somewhere else. And tell no one the new location until the day they leave."
Kael's head snapped up. "That's fool—"
"Blind faith is folly," Violet interrupted. Her eyes burned with something older than her years. "War is not won by the strongest arm or the purest heart. It is won by the hand that holds the scales—and the fingers that tip them."
She stepped forward.
"There are five ways to victory," she said, voice taking on the cadence of someone reciting hard-earned truth.
"First—gold. Coin is the chain that binds loyalty and the key that opens gates. An army marches on silver as much as steel."
"Second—words. Treaties spoken in sunlight can be worth more than blood spilled in shadow. Compromise is not surrender when it saves lives."
"Third—terror. Fear is a blade that cuts before it's drawn. Brutality makes enemies hesitate, makes allies obey."
"Fourth—fortune. Luck is the unseen current that drowns the prepared and lifts the desperate. Miracles happen, but only fools rely on them."
She paused.
"And fifth—deception. Betrayal is the knife that finds the gap in every armor. The enemy you cannot see is the one who kills you."
Her gaze held Kael's.
"You will fight with honor because that is your way. But the First Princess will use all five without hesitation. She will buy informants with gold. She will offer false treaties to delay your preparations. She will slaughter innocents to break your spirit. She will call on fortune through her bloodline magic. And she will plant traitors in your midst."
Kael's fists clenched.
"Honor has no place in her calculus," Violet said softly. "The one who writes the victor's name decides what honor means. Your honor lies not in how you fight—but in whether your people survive to remember you."
The tent felt smaller now, the air heavier.
Kael's voice came out rough. "Then what do you propose?"
Violet met his eyes.
"The Princess has taken the bait. She'll move faster now—reckless with ambition. That gives us an advantage."
She leaned forward slightly.
"But first, we need to know what's coming."
***
The banner rose against the pale morning sky—crimson silk emblazoned with a golden eagle, wings spread wide as if to swallow the horizon.
Beneath it, thirty thousand soldiers moved like a living tide.
At the front rode the cavalry—fifteen thousand, some on foot and some mounted warriors on warhorses bred for endurance and violence. Their armor gleamed dull silver, functional rather than ornate. Lances rested against shoulders like a forest of iron saplings.
Behind them marched the knights—eight thousand strong, each one a blade trained in discipline and brutality. Their boots struck the frozen earth in steady rhythm, a drumbeat that promised inevitability.
Then came the mages—three thousand robed figures walking in loose formation. Staves tapped against stone. Eyes glowed faintly with banked power. They spoke little, conserved energy, prepared for the moment when words would turn to flame.
The healers followed—five hundred men and women carrying satchels heavy with salves and prayers. They walked among the soldiers like ghosts, silent and necessary.
And at the center, flanked by personal guard, rode the Sorcerer-Paladins—two hundred warriors who wore both plate and incantation like second skin. They were the Princess's chosen, baptized in both blood and mana, capable of cutting down ten men or raising walls of ice with equal ease.
Behind them, chained and muzzled, came the beasts.
High Orcs—eight feet tall, tusked, muscles like corded stone. Their eyes burned with rage and resignation. Iron collars dug into thick necks, etched with runes that shocked if they resisted.
Eight-Tusked Mammoths—massive beyond reason, each step shaking the ground. Platforms strapped to their backs carried archers and siege equipment.
Sabertooths—great cats with fangs like curved daggers, pacing restlessly in spiked cages on wheeled carts.
Crocateers—wolf-sized beasts with canine bodies and crocodilian heads, their jaws capable of snapping bone like dry wood. They strained against chains, eager for flesh.
And others—scaled horrors, feathered nightmares, things that had no name in common tongue.
At the army's heart rode the First Princess.
Her hair was bound in a war-braid. Her armor was white plate trimmed with gold, fitted perfectly to her frame. At her hip hung a longsword whose hilt bore the royal sigil.
Beside her, mounted on a destrier black as coal, rode her Commander-General—a man whose face was carved from old scars and older battles.
"Your Highness," he said, voice low and careful, "we're pushing hard. Sixteen hours of march each day—the men will reach the Valley exhausted. Perhaps we should—"
"The men under my banner are not common rabble," the Princess interrupted. Her voice was crisp, brooking no argument. "They are elite. Tested. Trained. This pace is well within their capability."
She glanced at him.
"And if we delay, those who seek to undermine me will have time to sharpen their knives. I will not hand them that opportunity."
The Commander-General inclined his head. "As you command."
The Princess smiled—sharp, cold, satisfied.
"Besides," she said, "the total number of Beastkin across all three tribes barely exceeds eight thousand. Most of them are noncombatants—elders, children, I heard even the mothers fight. Their warriors number perhaps three thousand at best."
She gestured to the army stretching behind her.
"We outnumber them somewhat eight to one. And with the advantage I carry..."
Her hand moved to a pouch at her belt. Something inside pulsed faintly, cold even through leather.
"They will fall before they understand what struck them."
Her laughter rang out—bright, cruel, echoing across the marching column like the cry of a hunting bird.
The banner snapped in the wind.
The army moved forward.
And behind them, the snow began to fall.