Chapter 23 Shifting Ground
Soren
The trail had ended three villages ago, and Soren knew it just as well as the scouts and the men riding beside him. Even so, they had continued searching, because the alternative was turning back, and turning back meant admitting failure once again.
The woman described by the merchant had not been Eira. The rider seen crossing the eastern road had not been Eira either, and the tracks found near the river belonged to someone else entirely. Every lead ended the same way, dissolving into nothing.
Soren's horse shifted beneath him, and the movement sent a sharp pulse of pain through his chest. He ignored it, as he had learned to ignore so many things lately. The habit was becoming increasingly useful.
Ahead, the walls of Ironfang emerged through the morning mist. For the first time in his life, the sight of home brought him no comfort, only the reminder of another list of problems waiting for him: reports, border disputes, Frostvein, unreliable allies, and a woman he still could not find.
His jaw tightened.
Beside him, one of the scouts cleared his throat, which was a mistake. Soren already knew what was coming.
"My lord—"
"No."
The man blinked.
"I haven't said anything yet."
"You were about to."
Silence followed, and the scout wisely decided not to continue. Unfortunately, another rider proved less cautious.
"The eastern patrol returned."
Soren turned his gaze toward him, and the younger wolf immediately straightened in the saddle.
"The border villages are asking for additional guards."
Of course they were. Everyone seemed to be asking for something lately—more guards, more supplies, more answers, and answers were the one thing Soren did not have.
"What happened?"
The rider hesitated before answering.
"A few merchants refused entry."
That finally drew Soren's full attention.
"Refused?"
The rider nodded.
"They claimed they no longer recognize our authority over the crossing."
For several moments, nobody spoke. The wind whispered through the pines, a horse snorted somewhere along the line, and a raven called in the distance.
Soren felt something dark shift inside him. It was not surprise, and it was not even anger. It was recognition.
Vargan was moving.
The old bastard had finally stopped shouting across borders and had begun pulling at the foundations beneath them instead, weakening them one village, one road, and one alliance at a time.
The realization settled heavily in Soren's chest, almost as heavily as the pain itself. Almost.
By the time they reached Ironfang, the mood had darkened considerably as the gates opened and the patrol rode through in silence.
No one spoke, yet the news spread quickly anyway, as it always did.
Soren had barely made it halfway across the courtyard before another wolf intercepted him.
It was Garrick, one of Ironfang's oldest captains, with grey threading through his dark beard and a fresh scar crossing one cheek. He looked exactly as Soren remembered, which was unfortunate.
"We need to talk."
Soren dismounted and gave him a dry look.
"I'm certain you believe that."
Garrick ignored the answer.
"The southern crossing."
Of course it was another problem.
Soren handed his reins to a stable boy.
"What about it?"
"The lord of Black Ridge postponed the meeting."
Soren stopped for a moment before resuming his walk.
"Why?"
"He claims there are complications."
"Meaning?"
"He didn't say."
The answer lingered between them, and both men understood perfectly well what it meant.
Vargan again.
Garrick followed him across the courtyard.
"The western villages are asking questions."
"People always ask questions."
"This time they're asking whether our allies still stand with us."
That finally made Soren stop. He turned slowly, and there was something dangerous in the movement.
"And what answer did you give them?"
Garrick held his gaze.
"The truth."
A heavy silence settled over the courtyard while several wolves nearby suddenly found urgent reasons to be elsewhere.
"The truth," Soren repeated.
"Yes."
"And what exactly is the truth?"
Garrick folded his arms.
"That I don't know."
The words landed harder than any insult, not because they were disrespectful but because they were honest.
Something inside Soren snapped—not completely and not beyond repair, but enough.
"You don't know?"
His voice had gone quiet, and Garrick immediately recognized the warning in it, though by then it was already too late.
"You asked."
"No."
Soren stepped closer.
"I asked for information."
The courtyard seemed to shrink around them as tension tightened the air.
"I did not ask for uncertainty."
Garrick's expression hardened.
"And I don't have certainty to give you."
Silence followed, filled with the wrong answer, the honest answer, and the answer Soren would once have accepted without hesitation.
Now it only fed the growing pressure behind his ribs, behind his eyes, and beneath the mark.
For one terrible second he wanted to hit something, break something, do anything to release the sudden surge of anger that startled even him.
Garrick noticed it immediately, and Soren knew he had noticed, which only made everything worse.
Eventually he stepped back.
"Find out."
The words came out harsher than he intended.
"Before someone else does."
Then he turned and walked away without waiting for an answer because he no longer trusted himself to hear one.
Sleep came in fragments that rarely lasted more than an hour before pain dragged him awake again.
Silence would follow for a time, then exhaustion would pull him back toward sleep, only for the pain to return and shatter it once more.
Somewhere after midnight, Soren stopped trying to measure the passing hours.
The fire had long since burned low, and moonlight spilled through the narrow window of his chambers. The room remained unchanged, with the same walls, the same desk, and the same chair standing exactly where they always had. Everything was as it should have been, yet everything felt wrong.
He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a hand against his ribs. The mark burned beneath the fabric, not constantly, which would have been easier to endure, but in unpredictable and cruel waves that felt as though something beneath his skin refused to let him forget.
Sleep claimed him again, though only briefly before a sound pulled him back.
His eyes opened instantly, and for a single heartbeat he was certain someone stood near the doorway.
He thought he saw pale hair and a motionless figure waiting there, and hope arrived before reason had a chance to intervene.
Then the room sharpened into focus.
The doorway stood open, but it was empty.
Soren stared into the darkness while the silence settled heavily around him, becoming almost unbearable before he finally forced himself to look away.
The second time he woke, he thought he heard footsteps. The third time, he was certain he heard a voice. By the fourth awakening, he no longer knew whether there had been any sound at all.
By dawn, he was no longer certain which moments had been dreams and which had been real. When the first light appeared beyond the mountains, he abandoned any hope of sleep entirely.
The fortress was already waking around him as guards changed posts, kitchen fires were lit, and messengers moved through the halls while life continued as though nothing had changed.
Soren fastened his sword belt and left his chambers. Reports were waiting for him, speaking of a border growing unstable and allies becoming increasingly uncertain. Somewhere beyond the mountains, Vargan was also moving pieces across the board, building something whose shape remained hidden.
Soren could feel it.
Whatever the old wolf was planning, sitting inside Ironfang would not stop it, and neither would enduring another sleepless night.
By the time the sun cleared the eastern peaks, horses were already being saddled. If Black Ridge wished to postpone discussions, Soren intended to hear the reason himself.
By midday, the mountains behind them had begun to disappear.
The road wound through narrow valleys and dense pine forests as it descended gradually toward the southern territories.
Soren rode at the front, while no one seemed particularly eager to ride beside him, which was a recent development he had noticed even though no one ever mentioned it aloud.
The silence suited him because it demanded nothing from anyone.
The weather had turned colder overnight, and dark clouds gathered beyond the peaks while the wind carried the scent of approaching rain.
Ahead, the road curved around a rocky hillside as Garrick guided his horse closer with the caution of a man approaching an injured bear.
"We should reach Black Ridge before nightfall."
Soren responded with a grunt.
Under normal circumstances, Garrick would have continued speaking and Soren would have listened, but neither seemed interested in continuing the exchange, and the conversation died almost immediately.
Several riders exchanged glances behind them, and although Soren noticed, he pretended not to.
The mark burned again, sending a sharp pulse of heat beneath his ribs before the sensation vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
His hand tightened around the reins.
Not now.
The road continued downward, and eventually the trees began to thin as fields appeared between the hills alongside scattered farmhouses, stone walls, and shepherds watching the riders pass.
Everything looked ordinary, yet something felt wrong.
Soren first noticed it at the western checkpoint.
The banner of Black Ridge still flew above the gate, but the guards no longer stood at attention when they approached.
There were no greetings, no smiles, and no visible relief at the sight of Ironfang riders; there was only caution.
One guard disappeared immediately after spotting them, hurrying toward the settlement as though carrying news or perhaps warnings.
Garrick noticed it as well, and his expression darkened, though Soren said nothing.
The gate opened slowly, far more slowly than it should have.