Seven days later, at dusk, they arrived in the valley: 1,412 wolves, singing for their dead and bearing their injured. The gates were ajar. Eyes wide at the crimson-and-black banner snapping above the column, mothers, puppies, and elderly people lined the barrier. A cheer that shook the snow from the pines rose as they spotted Heath riding at the front with Jasper's axe over his back. But when they counted the gaps between survivors, the joy wavered.Heath held up one hand. There was silence. He added, "Tonight we mourn," his voice echoing to the den at the farthest end. “We are building tomorrow.” He got off his horse. Savannah, still pale from change and blood loss, laid down next to him. The fresh group trailed behind them as they entered the gates together. In their absence, Ironwood carpenters who were already combining expertise were working alongside Crimson builders to extend the longhouse. There were now two hearth-fires burning under one roof. There were two banners hang

At morning, half-dead, horse-laughing, and shaky, the first rider arrived. At the Stormfang Valley gates, he fell off the saddle and never got back up. His limbs and throat were spiderwebed with black veins, and his eyes were a putrid yellow. Mason scratched at his face and talked in a voice that was not his own before he could push moonroot tea past his lips.The hunger recollects. Then he had one convulsion and passed away. The second rider, a barely sixteen-year-old Dusk Hollow scout, arrived at dusk. Before her legs gave out, she reached the longhouse steps. In between coughing spells of green fire, she gave her report. With a rasp, she said, "Mist Marsh is gone." "The whole pack. The mist was dark as they awoke one morning. Every wolf was hollow by midnight. Yellow-eyed walking shadows. Now they march south. Thousands. She passed away prior to the moonrise. Reports started to pour in by the seventh day. Smoke signals, runners, and ravens, all of which the dispersed packs c

The parchment was older than both the bones of the mountains and any living dwarf.In the half-finished long hall of Wolf's Bastion, Mason unfolded it across the rough-hewn table, his fingers shaking with a mixture of fear and awe. Centuries before the First Pack fell, the hide had been treated with ironwood sap and moonroot oil; the runes along its edges still glowed dimly, responding to the silver wolf-mark that glowed on Heath's naked chest as he leaned in.Shadows curled restlessly at Savannah's feet, like smoke seeking breeze, as she stood to his left. One-armed but not bowed, Lyra put her other hand on the edge of the table. On the other side, Thargrim stood with a hammer positioned like a standard and a beard that was bristling. With his eyes strained at the old script, Forrest leaned in the doorway with a bow across his back.Mason's voice was hardly audible above a whisper.The script is from the First Pack. Older than anything in the Stone-Shaper archives, older than the tab

A gate of white stone, so old that it gleamed dimly in the black sea, marked the end of the causeway. The words "ONLY THE WORTHY MAY PASS" were inscribed in the First Tongue above the arch, deeper than any sword could cut. A WOLF KNOWING DEATH IS THE ONLY ONE WHO MAY GO IN.The water itself rose before the gate.The surface was broken by a serpent that was thicker than three wolves standing shoulder to shoulder and longer than the causeway. Moon-silver scales, each engraved with cold-burning runes, overlapped like plate armor. Ancient, unblinking eyes the color of frozen stars stared at them. The air became frost and then snow when it breathed.It had no mouth to speak. Its voice came from blood and bone.White Wolf. The shadow of the ANCHOR. YOU'RE LATE.With the shadows separating from the others and encircling her like living armor, Savannah took a step forward.She declared, "We've come for the weapons."They're not presents. They are burdens. Show that you are capable of carrying

The Hall of Kings seemed heavier than when they had left, but they brought back enough mythology to arm a country. As the ten survivors placed their selected weapons on the black-glass dais-like offerings, the First Wolves statues silently observed. As if the city itself lamented the cost already incurred, the silver light had faded to a solemn radiance. Scarlett carefully placed the white-gold collar next to the other artifacts. "She ought to be here," she remarked in a harsh tone. Mason's elderly gaze remained focused on the enormous statue of the White Wolf. "She will be." Her narrative doesn't end here. The huge star-forged axe was moved across Vance's shoulders. "So, where is the remainder of it? We have arrows, armor, and blades, but the songs all mentioned one weapon above all others. He was correct. Every Long Winter story concluded in the same manner: the First White Wolf raised Dawnbreaker, a spear of living sunshine, and drove it through the Hunger's heart when all h