Chapter 37. The Price of Mercy

The snow fell harder the next morning.

It began as thin flakes drifting down from a sky the color of bruised steel, then thickened into heavy, wet curtains that wrapped the high cliffs in white, as if the mountain itself were in mourning. The battlefield at Black Hollow had long since gone silent, but the bodies remained. Wolves who had fought for fire, for ash, for hunger, for pride lay where they had fallen. No one had truly won. Survival was the only victory left to count.

Seraya stood at the edge of the slope, watching as graves were dug into the frozen ground. She wore no armor, no crown, no sigils of rank—only a dark cloak soaked through at the hem, her hair braided tightly against the wind. Her boots were caked with mud and blood, and her breath curled white in the cold air.

Behind her, Hollowridge still smoldered in places. Scorch marks streaked the stone