Chapter 1: Shadows over Frostfang
“You’re late,” murmured a low voice in the dark.
Freya didn’t look at the speaker. From the top of Frostfang’s outer wall, she adjusted her soot-smeared hood and scanned the snowy forest below. “I wasn’t aware we had an appointment.”
“Every morning before dawn,” muttered Joren, the only stablehand who didn’t flinch at her silence. “Same perch, same shadows. I figured you liked routine.”
She didn’t reply. Her fingers rested on the curve of her longbow, the wood worn smooth from silent hours in the watchtowers. Beyond the fog-slick pines, a low howl trembled. The direwolves stirred early today.
“Midwinter Hunt’s tomorrow,” Joren added. “Think you’ll finally join the parade?”
Freya snorted. “To parade is to be seen.”
He smiled wryly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Below, cadets milled in the yard—brash boys with polished spears, laughing too loud. One of them pointed up. “Hey! Is that the ghost again?”
“The lucky mongrel,” someone else sneered.
Freya’s jaw tensed.
Joren shifted. “Ignore them.”
“They’re not wrong,” she said flatly. “I’ve never missed a shot. To them, that’s unnatural.”
“No,” he said. “To them, it’s threatening.”
Another howl echoed—closer.
Freya rose. “I have work.”
“Where?”
She glanced down at him, pale eyes luminous in the pre-dawn gloom. “Where shadows move.”
And she vanished over the ledge, boots silent on stone.
---
By midday, the barracks were ablaze with news: the Midwinter Hunt would offer a lord’s reward for the alpha direwolf’s pelt—enough gold to fund three harvests or buy a new name.
Freya slipped through servant tunnels, hood low, arms laden with leftover bread crusts and dried meat. No one noticed her pass. No one ever did.
She knelt behind the broken smithy, where a cluster of foundling pups waited with hungry eyes. They weren’t hers—but she fed them anyway. Scars laced one’s muzzle; another limped from a trap wound. They licked her fingers, tails thumping weakly.
“Quiet,” she murmured. “Eat. Grow strong.”
Behind her, boots crunched gravel.
She turned, hand already on a dagger. But it wasn’t a threat. Just Theo.
No—*not Theo.* Theo wouldn’t be here, not alone.
This was one of the foppish cadets—lanky, grinning. A cape pinned with war beads dragged in the dirt behind him.
“You’re the one who never talks,” he said, eyeing her bow. “Scared to spar?”
Freya didn’t respond.
He stepped closer. “What’s wrong? Afraid the runt’s luck will finally run out?”
One of the pups growled. Freya stood between them.
He smirked. “Thought so.”
She turned away. “You’ve said enough.”
But as she moved to leave, he grabbed her shoulder.
Then a new voice cut across the yard—calm, sharp.
“That’s enough, Kieran.”
Freya froze. The cadet released her instantly, straightening. “Sir Theo—I was only—”
“Leave.”
Kieran hesitated, then stalked off, muttering.
Theo watched him go before his gaze shifted to Freya. His face was sharp, windswept, and unmistakably highborn. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t need a savior,” she said.
“I’m not offering to be one.”
She nodded curtly and turned. But before she vanished, he asked, “What’s your name?”
She paused.
Then: “Names are for friends. We’re not that.”
And she was gone, leaving only the scent of smoke and snow.
---
That night, the Frostfang Council convened.
Freya crouched above the rafters, hidden by dust and shadow, her breath slow and controlled.
Councilor Garrick’s voice rang below. “Tomorrow, we launch a covert scouting raid across the Ironmane border. No banners. No records. Volunteers only.”
Murmurs rose.
“Is that wise?” someone asked. “It breaks treaty law.”
“The Ironmanes have moved warbeasts near the glacier passes,” Garrick snapped. “Do you want another incursion?”
Silence.
“I need five scouts. Swift, quiet, untraceable.”
A beat.
No one moved.
Freya whispered, “I volunteer.”
Garrick’s head snapped up. “You?”
She dropped lightly to the floor. “I know the terrain. I won’t slow you down.”
He studied her for a long moment. “You’re a servant. Barely a barrack rat.”
“I’m a hunter.”
“Or a mongrel, as the boys say.”
She met his gaze. “Let them come. I’ll bring back proof.”
A cold smile touched his lips. “Very well. Let’s see what shadows teach.”
From the corner, Theo watched her with narrowed eyes.
He didn’t know her name.
But the way she stood—unbent and burning—he would not forget.
---
Later, on the snowy threshold before the northern gate, Freya strapped quivers to her back and laced her boots tight.
A low voice came from behind. “Why did you volunteer?”
She turned. It was Theo again.
“Do you believe in monsters?” she asked.
He blinked. “What?”
“In stories. Ghosts. Creatures born under cursed moons.”
“I’ve heard tales,” he admitted. “My mother used to say the moon sings when it’s ready to choose its warriors.”
Freya stared into the dark beyond the gate. “Then let’s hope it sings tomorrow.”
And without another word, she stepped into the snow, vanishing once more into the night.