Chapter 8 — Blood on Winter Thyme

The storm eased by dawn, leaving Ironclaw glazed in brittle sunlight. Ophelia woke to Thorn’s muffled call from below the loft.

“Moon-maid, up. Alpha summons every able hand for ration haul.”

She shuffled aside the shaggy hound and climbed down. In the tack-room shadows Thorn pressed a heel of bread into her hand. “Eat on the walk.”

She managed a crooked smile. “Planning to haul me or the rations?”

“Both if you faint,” he muttered, then opened the outer door.

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#### Ice-Road Convoy

At the inner gate Rurik directed wagons onto the frozen river road. He spotted Ophelia among the drudges.

“You—collar-singer—drive the third sled. We’ll need swift turns at the gorge.”

She bowed. “Yes, Alpha.”

Carriers lashed crates of dried venison and arrowheads. Ophelia clambered onto the crude wooden runners beside a hulking guard named Varrik, who spat a wad of chew.

“Hold the reins, maid. I watch the flank.”