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"Move!"
Someone screamed it, but my legs didn't listen. The wolf's jaw closed around my forearm before I could process that the voice was mine.
Pain ripped through me, hot and immediate. I hit the snow hard, the spear tumbling from my grip. The animal's breath reeked of old blood and rot. Its yellow eyes locked on mine, and somewhere in the back of my head a little blue text box flickered to life.
*Frostland Alpha – HP 847/850 – Weak Point: Throat (exposed during lunge)*
What the hell.
The wolf shook its head, tearing deeper. I heard myself scream again, but the sound felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. The numbers didn't go away. They hung there in my vision, crisp and steady, like a UI element I couldn't close.
"Get up!" A man's voice this time, rough and furious. "On your feet, girl!"
I didn't know him. Didn't know this body, this snow, this spear. I didn't know why I was supposed to fight a wolf the size of a small horse or why part of my brain was calmly informing me that it had three hit points missing and a critical vulnerability in its throat.
I knew spreadsheets. I knew game balance and damage calculations and how to min-max a build until it sang.
I knew I died in a car wreck on I-5 with a Red Bull in the cupholder and a crunch deadline I wasn't going to make.
The wolf yanked me sideways. More pain. More blood on the white ground.
"Korde!" The man again, closer now. "The throat!"
My left hand closed on something cold. The spear shaft. The wolf was pulling me toward the tree line, dragging me like a rabbit, and the blue text box updated.
*Frostland Alpha – Status: Feeding Grip – Next Action: Retreat to Den*
No.
I didn't understand this world, but I understood win conditions. I understood that if this thing dragged me into the woods, I was done. And I understood weak points.
I jammed the spear up with everything I had.
The blade punched through fur and muscle and cartilage, right where the text box said it would. The wolf made a wet, choking sound and let go. I rolled, yanked the spear free, and drove it in again.
*Critical Hit – Frostland Alpha HP 0/850*
The animal collapsed in the snow. Its blood steamed in the cold.
I stayed on my knees, shaking, the spear braced in front of me like it might get back up. It didn't. The text box faded.
"Impossible."
I turned my head. An old man stood five feet away, frost in his beard, a sword on his hip. He wasn't looking at the wolf. He was looking at me.
"She put it down," someone else said. A woman's voice, higher up the slope. "First strike."
"She got lucky," a third voice cut in. Male, cold. "Luck isn't bloodline."
I tried to stand. My legs wobbled. The snow under me was red, and I couldn't tell how much of it was mine. My right arm hung limp, teeth marks punched clean through the leather bracer.
"Can you walk?" The old man stepped closer. He didn't offer a hand.
"Who are you?" My voice came out hoarse.
"Virrak." He said it like I should know. Like it mattered. "Can you walk?"
"I don't—" I stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know where I am."
Something shifted in his face. Not surprise. Something worse. Pity.
"You're in the Frostmark," he said quietly. "And you just killed the wolf your father sent you to kill three years ago."
I stared at him.
"Three—"
"You've been gone," he said. "In your head. Since the fever. The council said you wouldn't wake up right."
"I'm not—" I bit down on the rest of it. *I'm not whoever you think I am.* That wasn't going to help. I didn't know the rules yet. Didn't know the map.
I forced myself upright. My arm screamed. I ignored it.
"Where's the council now?"
"Watching." Virrak tilted his head toward the ridge. I followed his gaze. A dozen figures stood in the snow, dark furs and cold eyes. One of them raised a hand.
Virrak's jaw tightened.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means they've seen enough."
He turned and started walking toward them. I grabbed his shoulder with my good hand.
"Wait. Enough for what?"
He looked at me. Really looked. And I realized he was old in the way soldiers get old, the kind that buries everyone.
"They wanted to see if you could hold a spear," he said. "You did. Now they'll vote."
"On what?"
"Whether you're still Korde enough to live."
My stomach dropped.
"That's not—" I started, but he was already moving again, boots crunching through the snow. I followed, because I didn't know what else to do. The council waited at the top of the ridge, silent and immovable as the stones behind them.
The man in the center stepped forward. He was younger than Virrak, maybe fifty, with a scar that ran from his left eye to his jaw. He looked at the dead wolf, then at me.
"Lynn Korde," he said. My name. I guess that settled one question. "You were sent to prove your worth."
I didn't answer. Didn't trust my voice.
"You killed the beast," he went on. "That much is done."
"Then I passed," I said. "Right?"
Someone laughed. A short, ugly sound.
The scarred man shook his head.
"Your father killed three wolves before his tenth winter," he said. "Your brother took a pack alone. You barely survived one, and it cost you blood we can't afford to lose."
"I survived," I said. My arm throbbed. My head felt light. "That's the point, isn't it?"
"The point," the scarred man said, "is that you are weak. The fever burned the warrior out of you. What's left isn't fit to lead."
Virrak started to say something. The scarred man raised a hand, and he stopped.
"The vote is cast," the man continued. "You are cast out. You will leave the Frostmark by dawn with whatever you can carry. If you return, you will be killed."
The words hit me like cold water.
"You can't—"
"It's done." He turned his back. The others followed. Just like that. No trial. No appeal.
Virrak caught my good arm before I could go after them.
"Don't," he said.
"They can't just—"
"They can." His grip tightened. "And they did. We go. Now."
"I'm not running."
"You're bleeding out." He pulled me toward the trees. "We go, or you die here. Choose."
I looked back at the ridge. The council was already gone. The wolf's body steamed in the snow, and the only sound was the wind.
I let Virrak lead me down the slope.
We made it maybe twenty feet before I heard the footsteps behind us.
"General Virrak."
We both stopped. I turned.
A woman stood in the snow. She was younger than the council, maybe thirty, with black hair braided tight and a bow slung across her back. I didn't recognize her.
"Thera," Virrak said. His voice was careful. "This isn't your concern."
"The council sent me," she said. She wasn't looking at him. She was looking at me. "They changed their mind."
Something cold crawled up my spine.
"They're letting her stay?" Virrak asked.
Thera smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.
"No," she said. She drew an arrow, nocked it, and leveled it at my chest. "They decided exile was too kind."
The string creaked.
"Strip her," Thera said. "Then put her on her knees. The council wants this done before dawn."