The refugees moved like ghosts through the mountain pass.
Three hundred souls—mothers clutching infants, elders leaning on walking sticks, children too young to understand why they ran from home. They walked in silence, broken only by the crunch of snow and the occasional whimper of a cold child.
Violet led from the front, her small frame wrapped in furs too large for her. Behind her, Vael moved among the crowd, offering water, carrying the exhausted, speaking quiet reassurances.
The northern route was treacherous—narrow paths carved between cliff faces, ancient stone steps worn smooth by centuries of wind. One misstep meant falling into darkness.
They walked through the day and into evening, stopping only when the elderly could go no further.
As dusk bled into night, they reached a sheltered hollow—a natural amphitheater of stone with an overhang that blocked wind and snow. A small spring trickled from the rock face, half-frozen but drinkable.
"Here," Violet said. "We rest until dawn."
Mothers collapsed gratefully. Warriors began building small fires from deadwood they'd carried. The smell of smoke and exhaustion filled the air.
Violet sat on a flat stone near the hollow's edge, staring back the way they'd come. Somewhere beyond the mountains, the camp prepared for war.
Somewhere, Kael stood ready to die.
Footsteps approached.
She turned.
Eivor emerged from the path behind them, leading another group—perhaps fifty more. Mostly elderly, a few wounded warriors who could barely walk. They looked worse than the first wave—pale, trembling, some bleeding through makeshift bandages.
"You're late," Violet said quietly.
Eivor collapsed beside her, breathing hard. "Was it difficult?" she asked.
He laughed—sharp and humorless. "Yeah. Until Kael announced that the safe camp would be razed at nightfall."
Violet's eyes widened. "He what?"
"Burned every shelter. Scattered the supply caches." Eivor wiped sweat from his brow despite the cold. "Said all the safe locations were compromised—that the traitor had already sold the information to the enemy."
He paused.
"That still wasn't enough to convince some of them. The old warriors—the ones who remember the ancient wars—they refused to abandon their posts. Called it desertion."
"What changed their minds?"
"Kael promised to escort them back personally after the battle. With full honors. He swore on the spirits of his ancestors that if they lived, they would return as heroes, not cowards."
Violet closed her eyes. "The old bones."
"What?"
"The elders. They're the only ones who still believe oaths carry weight." Her voice was soft, sad. "The world's moved past that. But they haven't."
Eivor looked at her strangely but said nothing.
Around them, refugees settled into uneasy rest. Fires flickered. Children fell asleep in their mothers' arms. The night pressed close, cold and absolute.
Far behind them, beyond sight and sound, the camp prepared.
***
The bonfire roared at the valley's heart.
Flames climbed high enough to cast shadows across canvas tents and painted them gold. Warriors gathered in concentric circles—Direwolves, Bears, Leopards—all those who had chosen to stay.
At the fire's edge stood Bara and Kari, lit from below like monuments carved from flesh and fury.
Bara's voice carried over the crackling wood. "We are Beastkin!"
The crowd roared.
"We are not cattle to be herded!" His fist struck his chest. "We are not prey to scatter before the hunter's horn! We do not flee when the enemy shows their teeth!"
More roars. Weapons struck shields in rhythm.
"Our ancestors walked this earth when humans were still learning to make fire! They hunted beasts that could swallow mountains! They spoke with spirits that dwelled in stone and storm!"
Kari stepped forward, her voice cutting like a blade through snow. "We carry their blood. We carry their strength. We carry their honor!"
"Honor!" the crowd echoed.
"Da'ar Kael has forgotten what it means to be Beastkin," Bara continued, his tone darkening. "He has chosen survival over glory. He has chosen the path of the coward."
Some voices rose in agreement. Others remained silent—conflicted.
"But we—" Bara spread his arms wide, encompassing the gathered warriors. "We remember! We remember that to die in battle is to join our ancestors in the Great Hunt beyond the stars! We remember that honor is not a choice—it is the very breath in our lungs!"
He turned to face the crowd fully, firelight dancing in his eyes.
"Tomorrow, when the sun rises, we will stand on this ground. We will meet the enemy with blade and claw and spell. We will show them that Beastkin do not kneel!"
The warriors howled—a sound that shook the air, primal and defiant.
"Even without the Blood of Fenrir—" Bara's voice rose to a crescendo. "We are the children of the Great Beasts! We are storm and stone and fury made flesh! And we shall—"
The horn shattered the night.
Not their horn.
This one was different—higher, sharper, foreign.
Then came the sound of thunder.
But it wasn't thunder.
It was hooves.
Thousands of them.
The cavalry charge hit the outer perimeter before anyone could react. Torches appeared in the darkness—hundreds of them, moving like fireflies descending on prey.
"SHIELDS!" someone screamed.
But there were no shields ready. No lines formed. No defensive positions manned.
They had been celebrating. Preparing. Believing the enemy would wait for dawn.
The first wave of knights crashed through the outer tents. Canvas ripped. Wood splintered. Bodies flew.
"FORM UP!" Bara roared. "TO ARMS!"
But chaos answered.
Warriors scrambled for weapons. Shamans tried to gather mana. Mothers screamed for children who'd been hiding in tents now trampled beneath hooves.
Kari shifted—half-human, half-leopard, claws extending. "Ambush! It's an ambush!"
Mages on horseback appeared at the perimeter, staves glowing. They didn't chant. Didn't warn. Just released.
Fire bloomed.
The first tent went up like kindling. Then the second. Then ten at once.
The bonfire that had seemed so mighty moments ago was now a beacon—painting every Beastkin in light, making them perfect targets.
An arrow took a Direwolf through the throat. He fell without a sound.
Another warrior charged a mounted knight. The knight's blade took his head before he could close the distance.
Bara tried to rally them. "Hold! HOLD THE CENTER!"
But there was no center to hold.
The attack had come from three sides simultaneously. Cavalry from the west. Infantry from the south. Mages raining fire from elevated positions to the east.
And all of it under cover of night.
All of it breaking the unspoken rules of engagement—the ancient customs that said battles began at dawn, with horns and heralds, with time to prepare and pray.
The enemy had abandoned honor entirely.
Kari's voice cut through the screaming. "They knew! They knew we'd gather at the bonfire! They knew our formations!"
The traitor's information.
The realization hit like ice water.
Bara's roar became something else—rage mixed with desperation. He charged toward the cavalry line, massive arms swinging. He took down three knights before a mage's spell caught him—ice crystallizing across his legs, rooting him in place.
"Bara!" Kari leaped toward him.
A spear caught her mid-flight. She hit the ground hard, blood spreading across white fur.
All around them, warriors fell.
Some fought bravely—died with weapons in hand.
Others ran—were cut down from behind.
The shamans tried to summon the spirits, but their chants were interrupted by arrows, by screams, by the simple fact that chaos cannot be contained by prayer.
The Ma'ar who had spoken so confidently about honor now stood frozen, eyes wide, unsure where to even begin giving orders.
East or west? Defensive or offensive? Save the wounded or press the attack?
Every choice felt wrong.
Every choice led to death.
The bonfire collapsed, sending sparks into the sky like dying stars.
And in that moment—watching the flames scatter—one thought crystallized in every surviving mind:
We were fools.
They had prepared for a battle.
The enemy had come for a slaughter.
***
Far to the north, safe in the mountain hollow, Violet sat awake long after the others slept.
She stared south, toward the valley she could no longer see.
The wind carried no sound of battle—too far, too many mountains between.
But she knew.
Her hands clenched until her nails bit into her palms.
"Kael," she whispered to the darkness. "Don't die. Not yet. Not before I can—"
She stopped.
The stars above were cold and distant and offered no answers.
Behind her, Eivor stirred in his sleep. Vael sat sentinel near the path, ears forward, listening for pursuit that might never come.
The refugees slept fitfully, dreaming of homes they might never see again.
And in the Valley of Winds, the screaming continued.
The snow fell heavier now—thick and muffling, covering the blood as fast as it spilled.
By dawn, the valley would be white again.
Clean.
As if nothing had happened at all.