“Why does a man use any weapon?” I asked, my voice low. “Because he thinks it will help him win. And for a time, the wargs were helping King Radomil win. He would send in his troops, use cannons to take down defenses, and then the wargs would spill in through the cracks. Then we came above and joined you, and he saw the writing on the wall. By the time we pushed the last of the wargs out of Veladar, King Radomil saw that he had no control at all over them or their priests. When we forged the peace treaty between our people, he declared them outlaws, and Hakkon stole troops from under his nose and brought them into his fold. These wargs…” I gestured to the walls of the tent, what lay beyond. “They operate without the king’s blessing. I’m sure he knows, of course. But I think Radomil finds it far preferable that they prey on us, rather than the Forians.”

They would do this to their own people? Cirri looked nauseous.

“The worshippers of Wargyr don’t see themselves as Forians first. They see themselves as wargs first. If they couldn’t hunt us, they would certainly hunt the Forians. So long as we’re here to provide a distraction, Radomil won’t lift a finger to drive them out. Short-sighted on his part,” I said with a snort of contempt. “Hakkon will turn on him one day.”

Why us, though? Cirri frowned at me, flexing her hand. Would it not be easier to hunt on their own territory? Their own king has denied them; do they not want revenge?

“I have only educated guesses. King Radomil wanted the Rift and the Rivers, foremost; perhaps Hakkon hopes to take them and earn a pardon. I’ve also heard that the Rift was where the first worship of Wargyr began, and they believe it is their rightful territory. Or perhaps there is some small shred of loyalty to the country that offered them work as soldiers. If there’s truth to any of my theories, I haven’t proved it yet.”

I touched her hand, flattening it. The wound was now a silvered scar. “Your hand is healed, my lady. A scar to remind you that the forest is no place to walk alone.”

She shuddered. Believe me, I’ve taken the lesson to heart. I never want to see one again.

“I’m sorry to say that you will.” I kissed her palm. “I only hope I can keep you far from it.”

Cirri shook her head, still frowning at the fresh mark. Bane.

“Yes?”

She closed her eyes, knuckles whitening around the hilt of the knife for a moment. It was my fault. That he died. I couldn’t stay, but I couldn’t go for help. He thought I was one of them. 

“As Wyn said, it was pure bad luck.” I rested a hand on her leg, feeling the stone-hard muscles, still trembling a little, beneath my palm.

Cirri opened her eyes again, tears glimmering there. Was there anything else I could have done? Or am I a liability? I can’t speak, I’m no warrior, I’m useless. I couldn’t save him, and if that warg was alive, I wouldn’t have been able to save myself. What if someone is relying on me? Am I to simply lead them to death? How can I be the Lady of anything if I can’t even call out to save one life? 

“Stop.” I took her hands, forcing her into silence. “Don’t call yourself useless. You’re not a liability. Bad luck happens to us all. Ancestors only know how many men I’ve lost to it. I just lost… an entire village. Because of my misjudgement.”

I closed my eyes, wishing I’d pushed against them harder, crushed their beliefs underfoot. This misfortune wasn’t bad luck, simply bad leadership.

But I was used to swallowing down guilt, compartmentalizing the terrible things I’d done.

“We get nowhere when we wallow in ill fortune and blame,” I finally said. “We learn for next time. This was my mistake, and I take responsibility for it. Now all I can do is make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Cirri’s lips were pressed flat, her eyes still puffy with unshed tears, but she nodded slowly.

I didn’t get a chance to dig deeper, to uproot her feelings of inadequacy and burn them down. The tent flap opened, sending Wyn, Visca, and Miro in on a swirl of cold air.

Visca dropped into one of the other camp chairs with a soft groan, her arms full with a bundled cloak. Wyn immediately went to stir the cauldron, brows creased as she thought, and Miro looked surprisingly refreshed despite the chill and the grisly work.

“Got something here,” Visca said, patting the bundle in her lap. It moved, something inside making a tiny squeak.

Cirri was blinking tears away furiously, her face turned to the side, but even she looked at the bundle with curiosity.

“Found it in the back of a barn. The rest were… y’know. But this one got lucky.” She peeled back the cloak, revealing a tiny, furry face, with big black eyes and a black nose against icy gray and white fur. “They were breeding Forian dogs. Quite literally.”

“A laika,” I said, frowning at the pup. “Used to be common around here decades ago.”

“Right.” Visca scratched the top of its head. “I wish I could say this felt like the main reason they chose Tristone, but I don’t think that’s it. But Hakkon clearly took exception. I think I’ll give it to the houndmaster in the keep, we could use another hunting dog.”

Miro’s mouth twisted. “Keep a Forian dog as a pet?”

“Might as well. Can’t bring myself to throw the poor lad back out in the snow, much as I dislike having anything of Forian make around. Look, he’s got a round little belly.”

My commander pulled the rest of the pup out, tickling what was indeed a very round belly. She handed it to Cirri, who cradled the little animal, stroking its back.

“What happened?” she asked, squinting at my wife’s hand.

Cirri’s face tightened, and I kept it simple. “Found a man in the woods. He killed himself. There was a warg body left.”

Visca clicked her teeth. “Out in the woods, eh? Against orders?”

I’m never going there again, Cirri signed sharply, clutching the pup tighter, and I translated for her.

“That’s my girl. The sooner you leave things alone, the sooner you live to a ripe old age and die peacefully in your sleep.” Visca stood up, dusting off her legs. “Right, back to it, then. Come on, Miro. They’re not going to bury themselves.”

Miro gave the pup a last look and followed her out, and Wyn exhaled, dropping the ladle in the cauldron.

“Well, now that we’re free of inquisitive ears—” She scowled at the tent flap, and I knew she meant Miro, not her wife. “Yes, I found anomalies.”

I exhaled slowly, fighting the churn of anger and sadness in my gut. “Where?”

“The barn was the ritual site. Visca’s going to set fire to it whole. Sloughed skin, nails and teeth… better to torch the lot.”

“How many?” I kept a hand on Cirri’s back as she tensed, though she still petted the pup in a mechanical way.

Wyn sat on the camp chair, smoothing her hair back, picking at a thread in her sleeve. “At least seven.”

“Gods.” I closed my eyes. Seven newborn wargs, born of a ritual of pain and suffering.

My people’s pain and suffering.

“They ate that poor thing’s littermates.” Wyn scowled at the pup. “Ate everyone else. This wasn’t random madness, it was a well-planned feast.”

Cirri handed me the pup so quickly I hadn’t even realized she’d already stood up before it was in my hands. She dashed outside, and I heard her being sick on the other side of the canvas wall.

“A moment, please.” I handed the sole survivor to Wyn and went after my wife.

She was wiping her mouth, half-crouched in the snow, her face sickly white. I’m sorry, she signed, and I held her up, took her in my arms.

“Fuck, no, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I brought you.” I stroked her from crown to spine, slow and soothing. “I’m sorry you had to see this.”

In the distance, there was a thump, a whoosh, and flames leapt above the treetops. A column of black smoke billowed into the air. The barn, the ritual site, soon to be so many smoldering embers.