Chapter 37. The Price of Mercy

The snows fell harder the next morning.
Thin flakes at first—then heavy, wet curtains that turned the high cliffs white with mourning. The battlefield at Black Hollow had long gone silent, but the bodies remained. Wolves who had fought for fire, for ash, for hunger, for pride. No one had won. Not really. They’d only survived.

Seraya stood at the edge of the slope, overlooking the graves being dug. She didn’t wear armor. No crown. No sigils. Just a dark cloak, soaked through at the hem, and her hair braided tight against the wind. Her boots were caked in mud and blood. Her breath curled white.

Behind her, Hollowridge still smoldered in places. Scorch marks streaked the walls like old memories refusing to fade.

And yet it stood.

She heard him before he reached her.
Alaric never tried to approach quietly—not with her. His boots left a trail in the snow beside