Chapter 9: The Wolf-God’s Lullaby

The snow-choked village of Duskbrook sat silent beneath the moon, its stone walls cracked, its people gaunt. Once a thriving hamlet fed by river trade, now it was little more than a hushed ghost, clutching to the last flickers of warmth.

Freya’s boots crunched on the frost-laced bridge as she led her small convoy of exiles into the heart of town. Her hood was up, eyes scanning. Theo walked beside her, hand near his sword, senses tense.

“They’re watching us,” he murmured.

“They always do,” she said.

They approached the main square—abandoned, except for an old man stirring a pot over a dying fire. He looked up with rheumy eyes.

“You’re the Pale Warden,” he croaked.

Freya lowered her hood. “We brought food. Medicine. Reinforcements.”

“They say you were dead.”

“They say a lot of things.”

From the shadows, villagers emerged—thin, wary, but desperate. Lark and the others unloaded supplies. Children with wind-burnt cheeks clutched dried meat with trembling hands.