Chapter 8 · The Capital's Hounds

"They're not rebels." I kicked the corpse over so Virrak could see the crest stamped into the dead man's breastplate. "Capital regulars. Someone sent them."

Virrak crouched, breath misting in the pre-dawn cold. His fingers traced the wolf insignia, then the kill mark etched below it. "Three campaigns. These aren't green boys playing at war."

"No." I wiped my blade on the snow. My hands were shaking, but not from the fight. The numbers were gone. No floating morale bars, no terrain modifiers, nothing. Just blood and cold and the certainty that whoever sent these men knew exactly where we were. "They came for someone specific."

"You."

"Or Thera."

Virrak stood. Behind us, the camp was waking up—voices sharp with panic, the scrape of weapons being drawn too late. "How many?"

"I counted eight bodies. Could be more."

"Could be a scouting force." He turned, scanning the tree line. "Could be the vanguard."

I didn't answer. I was already moving, boots crunching through frost toward the center of camp where Thera's tent stood.