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"Those guards are conscripts." Virrak's breath clouded between us. "They won't die for Ironvow's grain."
I crouched beside him on the ridge, squinting at the convoy crawling across the frozen river below. Three wagons. Eight guards, maybe ten. The numbers floated above their heads like always—morale scores so low they might as well be walking corpses.
"Doesn't matter," I said. "We need what's in those wagons."
"Then we take it." He started to move.
I grabbed his wrist. "Wait."
He froze. Looked at my hand, then at me. "You see something I don't?"
I saw plenty. Supply value: high. Guard resistance: minimal. Terrain advantage: ours. It was a perfect ambush, the kind of setup that would've made my old dev team cheer. Clean math. Easy win.
Except the morale scores kept dropping. Not because the guards were scared. Because they were starving.
"They're not getting fed," I said.
"Good. Makes them slow."
"Makes them desperate." I let go of his wrist. "Look at the spacing. They're bunched too tight. If we hit them, they'll scatter, and we'll spend half the night chasing down survivors in the dark."
Virrak grunted. "So we kill them fast."
"Or we don't kill them at all."
He turned to stare at me like I'd just suggested we set ourselves on fire. "You want to ask nicely?"
"I want to know who's holding their families."
That got his attention. He shifted, leather creaking. "What makes you think—"
"The morale scores." I pointed, even though he couldn't see what I saw. "They're not afraid of us. They're afraid of going home empty-handed. Someone's got leverage on them, and it's not Ironvow."
"Could be anyone."
"Could be useful."
Virrak was quiet for a long moment. Below us, the convoy stopped. One of the guards shouted something. The wind ripped it away before I could catch the words.
"You're gambling," Virrak said finally.
"I'm reading the board." I rose to a crouch, checking the knife at my belt. "If I'm wrong, we take the wagons and run. If I'm right, we get the food and a list of names."
"And if they fight?"
"Then you get to say you told me so."
He almost smiled. "I'm holding you to that."
We moved down the ridge in silence, boots crunching on ice that was too thin to trust and too thick to break quietly. I counted steps, watching the morale numbers shift as we closed the distance. Thirty meters. Twenty. Fifteen.
One of the guards turned.
I stepped into the open, hands wide. "Easy."
Every spear came up at once. Eight guards, not ten. Two were kids, maybe sixteen. Their hands shook.
"Don't move," the lead guard barked. He was older, graying at the temples, and his morale score was flatlined. Not afraid. Just tired.
"I'm not here to fight," I said.
"Then you're here to die." But he didn't advance. His eyes flicked to Virrak, who'd stepped out behind me, and something in his posture shifted. Recognition.
"You're Korde," the guard said slowly.
"I am."
"The council exiled you."
"They did."
"So why aren't you frozen in a ditch somewhere?"
"Same reason you're still standing here instead of running." I took a step closer. One of the younger guards twitched, but the older man held up a hand. "Someone's got something on you."
His jaw tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Your families," I said. "Where are they?"
Silence. The wind howled between us.
"I can't help you if you don't talk to me," I said.
The guard laughed, bitter and sharp. "Help? You're exiled. You've got, what, one old man and a death wish? What are you going to do, ask the council nicely to give us our wives back?"
"Not the council." I watched his face. "Who's holding them?"
He didn't answer. But his eyes cut left, toward the lead wagon, just for a second.
I moved before Virrak could stop me, crossing the ice in four strides and yanking back the canvas. Grain sacks. Salted meat. And underneath, tucked against the wagon bed—
"Don't touch that," the guard snapped.
I pulled out the lockbox anyway. It wasn't locked. Inside: a stack of papers, names and locations written in a clerk's tight script. And at the bottom, a single black iron token, stamped with a wolf's head.
I held it up. "This is Ironvow's mark."
"Put it back."
"Why?" I turned to face him. "He's the one holding your families?"
The guard's face went pale. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"He'll kill them." His voice cracked. "If we don't deliver this convoy, if we don't report back, he'll know. And he'll kill them."
I looked at the token, then at the papers. Twelve names. Twelve families, scattered across three villages I didn't recognize. The math was ugly. If I took the wagons, these men went home to corpses. If I let them go, my people starved.
Virrak stepped up beside me. "Lynn."
"I know."
"We need the food."
"I know."
"There's no good choice here."
I turned the token over in my hand. The wolf's head caught the moonlight, sharp and clean. "What if we don't choose?"
Virrak frowned. "What?"
"What if we take the wagons and the families?"
The lead guard shook his head. "You can't. Ironvow's got them locked in a garrison. You'd need an army."
"I've got something better." I looked at Virrak. "I've got him."
Virrak's eyebrows climbed. "You want me to storm a garrison."
"I want you to walk in the front door and tell them Korde sent you."
"That's insane."
"That's a distraction." I held up the token. "While you're making noise, I'll be opening the back door. They won't expect two attacks. They won't expect me at all."
The guard was staring at me like I'd grown a second head. "Who the hell are you?"
"Someone who's tired of playing by their rules." I tossed him the token. He caught it on reflex. "You're going to go back and tell Ironvow the convoy was hit by bandits. Everything lost. You barely escaped. Can you do that?"
He looked at the token, then at me. "If you're lying—"
"Then you're no worse off than you are now." I met his eyes. "But if I'm not, your families go free and you keep your heads. That's a better deal than you've got."
Virrak leaned in. "This is a terrible plan."
"You have a better one?"
"Yes. We kill them and take the wagons."
"And then Ironvow kills the families and we spend the rest of winter looking over our shoulders." I turned back to the guard. "Where's the garrison?"
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he pointed northeast. "Two days' march. Old logging fort. Twenty men, maybe twenty-five."
"How many on the families?"
"Four. Maybe five. They're not expecting trouble."
"Good." I started toward the wagons. "Virrak, help them unload. Leave one sack of grain. Make it look like bandits got sloppy."
"Lynn—"
"Do it."
He swore under his breath, but he moved. The guards watched, frozen, as we stripped the wagons down to bones. Grain, meat, even the spare wheels. I kept the lockbox.
When we were done, I handed the lead guard a knife. "Cut your men. Not deep. Just enough to sell the story."
He stared at the blade. "You're serious."
"You want Ironvow to believe you, you'd better look like you fought." I paused. "Two days. If I'm not back by then, run. Take your families and go as far as you can."
"And if you are back?"
"Then you owe me." I turned away, slinging a grain sack over my shoulder. Virrak had already loaded himself like a pack mule. "Move out."
We climbed back up the ridge in silence. Halfway up, Virrak finally spoke.
"That garrison's going to be a bloodbath."
"Not if we're smart."
"We're not smart. We're two people."
"Three," I said. "Those guards are going to help."
"They'll sell you out the first chance they get."
"Maybe." I crested the ridge and looked back. Below, the guards were cutting each other, shallow slices on arms and faces. One of the younger ones was crying. "Or maybe they're just tired of being pieces on someone else's board."
Virrak grunted. "You're going to get us killed."
"Probably." I started walking. "But at least we'll die doing something interesting."
Behind us, the convoy started moving again, limping toward Ironvow's territory with its fake wounds and its real terror. I didn't watch them go. I was too busy studying the lockbox, flipping through the papers by moonlight.
Twelve names. Twelve levers. And at the bottom, under the last page, another token. Same wolf's head. But this one was stamped on the back with something else.
A single word, in a language I didn't recognize: *Vorsek.*
I stopped walking.
Virrak turned. "What?"
I held up the token. The moonlight hit the inscription, sharp and cold. "What does this mean?"
He went still. Then he took the token from my hand, turning it over slowly. His face was unreadable.
"Virrak?"
"It's Old Clan," he said quietly. "Pre-kingdom. Before the council, before the borders."
"What does it mean?"
He looked at me. His eyes were dark. "It means 'first claim.'"
The wind picked up, howling across the ridge. I took the token back, feeling the weight of it in my palm. Not iron. Something heavier. Colder.
"Ironvow's not just holding families," I said slowly. "He's marking territory."
"Looks like it."
"And the council knows."
Virrak didn't answer. He didn't have to.
I closed my fist around the token. The wolf's teeth bit into my skin.