The fire burned through the night.
By morning, when Kyle pushed the window open, the smell was still there.
The pale ash had long since been scattered by the wind, but the air remained thick with that sickly, sweet tang of charred flesh—clinging to the soil, seeping into the cracks of stone, refusing to fade.
The sky was gray.
Grayer than yesterday.
The clouds hung lower, heavy enough to feel as though they might collapse at any moment. The northern wind had picked up, rattling the bare branches of the old tree until they creaked like strained bones. The sound of the Graywater River was almost entirely drowned out, reduced to a faint, mournful whisper beneath the wind.
Kyle stood by the window, staring at the patch of blackened ash in the clearing for a long time.
He hadn't slept much.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the boy's face.
Gray eyes. Open. Looking at him.
And the wolf—mid-leap, its murky yellow-green eyes fixed on him, jaws spread wide, threads of blood and saliva stretching in the air.
One thought had circled his mind all night.
Wolves hunt in packs.
If there was one, there were more.
A pack.
Not one.
One wolf had killed seven people. It had taken two bullets from him, over a dozen militia, and a crippled knight to bring it down.
When a pack came—
what would he use to stop them?
Twelve magi-rifles. Fewer than three hundred rounds. A wooden fence that couldn't stop a single wolf. Two hundred followers with nowhere else to go, and over a thousand townsfolk too numb to care.
Kyle shut the window, pulled on his coat, and went downstairs.
The hall was empty. The hearth was cold.
A bowl of porridge sat on the table—thinner than yesterday's, already cooled, a pale film forming on its surface.
He didn't bother heating it.
He drank it in a few quick swallows, set the bowl down, and stepped outside.
It was colder out here.
The clearing was empty. The ash from last night still lay in a dark heap, its edges scattered by the wind. The bloodstains remained, dried into the dirt—a dull red that blended into the earth.
But the town was stirring.
Not in the usual scattered way.
People were moving—many of them—drifting in from every direction toward the same place.
Kyle followed.
On the far side of the clearing, beneath the old tree, over a hundred people had gathered.
Olde stood at the front, slightly hunched, his hands tucked into his sleeves. His gray eyes watched the growing crowd.
His expression was the same as always.
But not quite.
Before, it had been the calm of a man who had seen everything.
Today, it was the calm of a man who knew something was about to begin.
As Kyle approached, the crowd parted.
Not out of respect.
But with the quiet instinct of you don't belong with us—stand up there.
He stepped beside Olde.
"What's going on?" he asked.
Olde glanced at him.
"Your Highness," the old man said, "winter is coming."
"I know."
"Do you know what comes out of the Ashwood in winter?"
"I do."
"And do you know how the people of Riverbend survive it?"
Kyle said nothing.
Olde withdrew a hand from his sleeve and pointed north.
"Before the first snowfall, the things in the Ashwood start moving. First the small ones. Then the bigger ones. A wolf today. Ten tomorrow. A hundred the day after."
He spoke as if stating something beyond argument.
"The fence won't hold. The militia won't hold. Your guns won't hold."
A pause.
"So we leave."
"Leave?" Kyle asked. "For where?"
"The Holds. Maple Hold, Ox Hold, Star-Night Hold. South of the Dragonbone Mountains. There are walls there. Soldiers. Magi-cannons. The Aberrants can't pass."
Kyle studied him.
"Every year?"
"Every year."
"And the Lords before me?"
A faint twitch at the corner of Olde's mouth—something that might once have been a smile.
"The first one left before winter came. The second stayed until the first snow, then went south with us. Never came back. The third never came at all."
"And you?"
"We always come back."
No change in tone.
But the meaning was clear.
They left every year. And returned every year.
Not because they wanted to.
But because they had nowhere else to go.
"When do we leave?" Kyle asked.
"Tomorrow morning," Olde said. "Today we pack. Take what we can carry. Leave the rest."
"The Holds charge?" Kyle asked.
Olde looked at him.
"They do, my lord. You didn't know?"
Kyle shook his head.
Olde hesitated briefly, then said,
"Entry fee. Five silver per head. Then lodging, firewood, water—for the winter, about one to two gold coins per person."
Kyle did the math in silence.
Over a thousand people.
He didn't even have a hundred gold.
"And those who can't pay?"
"They borrow. The Earl allows it. Interest at thirty percent. Pay it back in spring—furs, herbs, crystal fragments. If they can't…" Olde shrugged slightly. "The debt carries over."
Kyle stood beneath the old tree, looking at the people—silent, numb, already preparing to leave.
Now he understood.
Why no one expected anything from him.
To them, he was no different from the others.
Arrive. Stay briefly. Leave when winter comes. Return in spring. Repeat.
They were migratory.
And he was just someone standing in their path.
"Your Highness."
Renard's voice came from behind.
Kyle turned.
"The retinue knows," the old knight said. "They're asking if we leave with the town."
"How many want to go?"
"…Most of them."
A pause.
"They saw the wolf last night. It's not that they don't want to stay. It's that staying means dying."
Kyle inhaled.
Cold air filled his lungs, sharp with iron and decay.
"Renard."
"Yes."
"Take a count. Anyone who wants to leave—let them go."
"And you, Highness?"
Kyle met his gaze.
"I'm going to the Holds," he said. "But not to hide."
Renard frowned slightly.
"Then—?"
"I'm going to see Washburn."
Silence fell.
Kyle turned and walked back toward the stone house.
Inside, Alice stood over the Ashwood map.
"You're going south?" she asked.
"You heard."
"The door was open."
Kyle stepped closer to the table.
"Alice," he said, "if I had enough magi-crystals, could you set up a warning array along the forest edge?"
She blinked.
"In theory, yes. But it would require mid-grade crystals. More than one."
"I know," Kyle said. "I just need to know if it's possible."
She studied him.
"…It is. Just not now."
Kyle nodded.
"Then we leave it for later."
---
By afternoon, Riverbend was packing.
The town moved like an animal preparing for hibernation—dragging out everything it owned, wrapping it tight, ready to migrate south.
On the street, people worked in silence.
Dry meat into sacks. Furs bundled tight. The last good clothes folded and packed.
Children ran between them, unaware of what was happening.
An old woman sat outside her house, holding a small carved box.
Kyle stopped.
"What's inside?" he asked.
She looked up.
"My husband," she said. "Ashes. Ten years now."
She traced the worn carvings.
"If I make it back this year, I'll bury him. Under the old elm. He liked that tree."
Kyle said nothing.
He walked on.
---
At the northern edge, he stopped again.
The fence still stood.
The section broken by the wolf had been patched—rough planks nailed across it like a crude bandage.
Beyond it stretched the gray wasteland.
And beyond that—
the Ashwood.
In the fading light, it loomed like a wall of black smoke.
"Your Highness."
Renard came to stand beside him.
They watched in silence.
"How long have you served me?" Kyle asked.
"Nineteen years," Renard said.
Kyle turned.
"Do you regret it?"
Renard looked at him.
"I've seen many nobles," he said. "Brave. Cowardly. Clever. Foolish. But there's one thing I've never seen."
"What?"
"Someone who refuses to bow."
A pause.
"You never bowed. Not in the capital. Not here. Not when that wolf came."
Kyle said nothing.
"I don't regret it," Renard said.
---
Before dawn the next day, they left.
Over a thousand people, stretched into a long, uneven line along the southern bank of the Graywater.
No one spoke.
Only the crunch of wheels, the lowing of cattle, and the wind.
Kyle walked in the middle.
He looked back once.
Riverbend looked small.
Gray roofs. Gray walls. The old tree standing alone.
The patched fence.
It looked like a wounded thing.
Abandoned.
Still alive.
"Your Highness," Alice said softly, "what are you thinking?"
Kyle looked forward.
"I'm wondering," he said, "if there's a way they don't have to leave next year."
Alice looked at him.
"…Do you think that's possible?"
Kyle didn't answer.
---
By dusk, the Dragonbone Mountains rose on the horizon.
A wall between earth and sky.
Lights flickered along the southern slopes.
The Holds.
They camped at the base.
No fires.
Just bodies pressed together against the cold.
Kyle sat against a cart, wrapped in a worn blanket that smelled faintly of mildew.
"Are you cold?" Alice asked.
"Yes."
"Me too."
Silence.
"Will the Earl see you?" she asked.
"He will."
"Why?"
"Because he has to."
Another pause.
"Will he help us?"
Kyle looked at the distant lights.
"No," he said. "But he'll trade."
The wind carried the scent of snow.
The first snowfall was coming.
Kyle closed his eyes.
The boy's face.
The wolf.
The old woman with the ashes.
He opened his eyes again, staring into the dark.
"Next year," he murmured, "this won't happen again."
The wind carried the words away.
No one heard them.