The deep woods offered a deceptive sense of security for the first day of their journey south. Under the familiar canopy of ancient pines and tangled oak, Kaelith moved with innate certainty, reading the subtle shifts in terrain, the passage of animals, the direction of the wind. Lunrik followed, focusing on matching her silent tread, forcing himself to observe the world through Lunrik's Dravenwolf senses rather than Alaric's assessment of tactical value. He needed to be the omega scout Kaelith believed him to be, not the ghost king evaluating lines of retreat and potential ambushes around every bend.
Yet, the ghost was persistent. Alaric's memories overlay Lunrik's perception – identifying natural choke points, evaluating the defensive potential of ridges, instinctively cataloging resources like clean water sources or hidden game trails. It was exhausting, this constant internal negotiation between ingrained instinct and learned skill, between past life and present necessity.
They spoke little, conserving energy, relying on hand signals Kaelith had drilled into him during their youth. She pointed out tracks – deer, wolf, a lone, heavy-set bear – interpreting the stories left in the snow-dusted earth. He, in turn, used knowledge Alaric shouldn't possess to identify edible winter roots Kaelith might have overlooked, or recognize signs of unusual blight on trees that spoke of deeper unease in the land. These moments caused Kaelith to glance at him sideways, that flicker of puzzlement crossing her features before she accepted the information pragmatically. She likely filed it away with his other post-Stigma oddities.
By the second day, the character of the forest began to change subtly. The ancient stillness felt disturbed. They found fewer signs of large game, as if something had pushed them deeper into the wilderness or further south. Instead, they found unsettling evidence of intrusion: trees hacked down crudely, not felled by storm or harvested with Dravenwolf care, but simply butchered. Campfire remains carelessly left, charring the moss, surrounded by discarded bones gnawed with aggressive force.
"Too messy for hunters," Kaelith murmured, examining a crudely constructed lean-to collapsing under its own poor design near one such fire pit. "Too wasteful for settlers."
"Soldiers," Lunrik supplied grimly, the word tasting bitter. He recognized the signs of undisciplined troops moving through unfamiliar territory – heedless destruction, lack of respect for the land, leaving blatant traces of their passage. "Ashfang patrols pushing boundaries."
Alaric's ghost sneered. Sloppy. An organized force leaves minimal sign. This suggested Kaedor's expansion was perhaps faster than his ability to properly train or control his warriors, relying on numbers and intimidation over skill. A potential weakness, but also a sign of brazen confidence.
Later that day, the faint, acrid scent of unnatural smoke reached them again, stronger now, confirming the direction Kaelith had noted before they left camp. They moved towards it with heightened caution, Lunrik feeling a cold dread pool in his stomach. He remembered the smell from sieges Alaric had witnessed – the stench of burning homes, of livelihoods turned to ash.
Cresting a low ridge cloaked in dense firs, they looked down into a narrow valley bisected by a small, partially frozen river. Or rather, they looked down upon what remained of a settlement. It wasn't large, perhaps a dozen sturdy timber dwellings clustered around a rough-hewn meeting hall and what might have been a trapper's trading post – likely a human settlement existing precariously close to traditional clan territories. Now, it was a scene of utter devastation.
Most buildings were charred skeletons, roofs collapsed inwards, smoke still rising lazily from blackened timbers in the biting wind. Possessions lay scattered and broken amongst the ruins – smashed pottery, torn scraps of cloth, overturned carts. Snow dusted the scene, unable to fully conceal the dark stains soaked into the earth or the horrifying stillness. There were no bodies immediately visible, which was somehow worse. Had the inhabitants fled? Been taken? Or were they… consumed by the flames?
Lunrik felt a surge of cold fury, mingled with a nauseating familiarity. Alaric had seen battlefields, witnessed the brutal necessities of war dictated by the curse. But this… this wasn't battle. This felt different. Vindictive. An assertion of dominance through sheer destruction. Kaedor's scorn made manifest.
Kaelith let out a low growl deep in her chest, her hand clenching around the grip of her bow. Her usual calm composure was fractured, replaced by fierce, protective anger. Though Dravenwolfs often kept separate from human affairs, senseless destruction violated the balance they cherished.
"Who would do this?" she whispered, her voice tight.
"Someone sending a message," Lunrik replied, his own voice hard. "Someone telling any nearby clans or settlements that this land now answers to a new master. That resistance, or even neutrality, will not be tolerated." He pointed towards the largest structure, the meeting hall, where a crude symbol had been burned deeply into the surviving doorframe: the snarling wolf head of the Ashfang clan, wreathed in angry flames.
They spent the next hour circling the ruined village cautiously, staying within the treeline, observing. They saw no signs of recent Ashfang presence – the attackers had likely moved on – but Kaelith found tracks near the riverbank. Booted human tracks, dozens of them, moving south in disorganized haste, indicating at least some villagers had escaped. But alongside them were heavier, deeper prints – werewolf tracks, crinos form, clearly herding or pursuing the fleeing humans.
"They drove them out," Kaelith said grimly, examining a drag mark leading towards the southern path. "Took some, maybe? Or just hunted them for sport?"
Lunrik felt sick. This was Kaedor's peace. This was the inheritance he now claimed. He remembered Velryn's cool justification in the Aviary, her cunning smile. Had she known this was the future she was enabling? Had her clan, had Malakor, calculated this collateral damage as acceptable? The thought fueled the cold resolve hardening within him. This couldn't stand.
As they prepared to move on, sticking to the shadows, giving the ruin a wide berth, Lunrik caught a flicker of movement near the partially collapsed trading post. He signaled Kaelith, both dropping instantly into cover. They watched, silent and still.
A figure emerged tentatively from behind a stack of charred barrels. Small, thin, human. A boy, maybe ten or twelve winters old, face smudged with soot, eyes wide with terror. He clutched a ragged bundle to his chest and peered frantically around, clearly searching for someone or something. Seeing nothing but devastation, he let out a small, choked sob and huddled back down behind the barrels.
Lunrik's first instinct – Alaric's instinct – was cold dismissal. A stray pup. Irrelevant. A liability. Ignore him, move on. Survival dictated it. Getting involved was foolish, dangerous.
But looking at the boy's small, trembling form, Lunrik saw something else. He saw the victim of the firestorm Kaedor had unleashed. He saw the consequence of the curse, the ambition, the betrayal. He thought of his own lost childhood, the confusion after the Stigma appeared. He thought of Queen Lysandra's gentle face in fragmented memories, her likely abhorrence of such cruelty.
Kaelith glanced at him, her expression questioning but also tinged with a fierce protectiveness that seemed directed at the boy. He knew what she was likely thinking – leave no vulnerable pack member behind, even if this wasn't truly their pack.
His decision warred internally for only a moment. Ignoring the boy felt like accepting Kaedor's worldview, agreeing that the weak deserved their fate. It felt like betraying whatever small spark of hope Lysandra's locket had preserved within him.
He met Kaelith's gaze and gave a barely perceptible nod towards the boy. He mouthed one word: Help.
Kaelith's responding nod was immediate, the internal conflict resolved in favour of protective instinct. This was wrong, and they wouldn't simply walk away. Approaching the terrified human child, however, especially as two werewolves emerging from a forest overlooking his destroyed home, would be incredibly difficult. How could they gain his trust? And what danger would helping him bring down upon themselves, with Ashfang potentially still prowling nearby? The whispers of Ashfang scorn echoed not just in the ruins, but in the impossible choice they now faced.