Chapter 13 · The Wolf at Her Fire

"You're bleeding on my grain."

Aldric didn't look up from the supply crate he'd pried open. His fingers traced the council stamp burned into the wood, and when he finally met my eyes, there was something almost like respect in his face.

"Your grain," he said. "You took three wolf camps in six days. That's not luck."

"No." I kept my spear loose in my hand, angled just enough that he'd see it. "It's math."

He straightened. Blood still seeped through the makeshift bandage on his shoulder—Virrak's work, after we'd hauled him out of the ice. The old general stood behind me now, silent, but I felt his disapproval like a hand on my neck. Bringing Aldric into camp. Giving him food and fire. Letting him see our numbers.

Stupid, maybe.

Necessary, definitely.

Aldric's remaining soldiers—forty-three men, cold and starving—waited outside the perimeter. I'd counted them twice. The floating numbers above their heads told me what I needed to know: morale 31%, supply deficit critical, loyalty to Aldric 89%.

High loyalty. That was the problem.

"You could've left me under that ice," Aldric said.

"I should have."

"But you didn't.