Chapter 23 Shifting Ground #3
The young dead warrior lay motionless at his feet.
Black Ridge.
They had not been soldiers or sworn enemies. They had been villagers, hunters, and men who only six months earlier would have shared food and fire with Ironfang patrols. Now they were killing them—not openly and not officially, but killing them all the same.
Vargan.
Again and always Vargan.
The old wolf was turning neighbors into enemies without ever needing to draw a sword, and the realization struck Soren harder than the news itself because it was working.
Soren crouched beside the youngest warrior while rainwater dripped from his hair. The boy could not have seen more than twenty winters. One hand remained clenched even in death, and Soren carefully pried the fingers apart.
Inside rested a small carved wolf.
It was a simple charm, probably brought from home.
The pressure beneath Soren's ribs twisted violently, and for a moment the world around him blurred. Pain, heat, rage, and loss crashed together all at once as the mark flared sharply enough to steal his breath.
Soren closed his eyes for only a second.
When he opened them again, Garrick was watching him closely—far too closely.
The captain had noticed.
Again.
That made two people now, and Soren had the unpleasant feeling that the number would not stop growing.
The rain continued long after darkness fell, and Red Creek had offered them shelter for the night, limited though that shelter was.
A half-abandoned storehouse near the river now housed Ironfang warriors instead of grain, and no one complained because the dead had already been carried home, the wounded had been treated, and there was nothing left to do until morning.
Soren sat alone near the doorway while the storm rolled beyond the walls and water drummed steadily against the roof. The sound should have been calming, but it wasn't.
The mark burned again with a slow, deep, persistent ache, the kind of pain that settled into the bones and refused to leave.
When footsteps approached, Soren already knew who they belonged to.
Garrick lowered himself onto a nearby crate, and neither of them spoke immediately. The silence stretched on for several minutes, while the older captain seemed perfectly content to wait, which only made the situation more irritating.
"What?"
Garrick looked toward the rain.
"You used to have more patience."
The answer came before Soren could stop it.
"You used to have better timing."
The captain snorted.
A year ago the remark would have earned a laugh, but tonight it produced only another stretch of silence.
Eventually Garrick spoke again.
"When was the last time you slept?"
Soren stared into the darkness beyond the doorway.
"I don't remember."
The answer sounded wrong the moment he said it, and Garrick clearly agreed.
"You should go back."
The words landed like a spark in dry grass.
Soren slowly turned his head.
"What?"
"Ironfang needs its alpha alive."
The pressure behind his eyes tightened instantly.
"Choose your next words carefully."
Garrick met his gaze and, to his credit, did not look away.
"Look at yourself."
That was the wrong thing to say, and both of them knew it.
The mark flared with sudden heat and pain, and for a heartbeat Soren wanted to stand, wanted to hit something, wanted the conversation to end before it went any further.
Instead, he remained exactly where he was, motionless despite the effort it took.
"You think I don't know what I look like?"
The question emerged more quietly than he intended, which somehow made it worse.
Garrick studied him for a moment before letting out a sigh that sounded less frustrated than exhausted.
"That's exactly what worries me."
Silence followed while the storm continued outside and neither man moved.
Eventually Garrick leaned forward.
"There is something else."
Soren already hated where the conversation was going.
"What now?"
"The attack."
The captain rubbed a hand across his beard.
"It wasn't random."
"No."
"It wasn't revenge either."
That finally held Soren's attention. Garrick continued.
"They wanted witnesses."
The words settled heavily between them. It hadn't been a raid, a robbery, or even a battle in the usual sense. It had been a message.
Soren understood immediately, and the realization left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Fear.
That was what Vargan was spreading—not soldiers or armies, but fear itself. He was doing it one settlement at a time, one road at a time, and one ally at a time.
The old wolf was teaching the region that standing beside Ironfang came with a price, and people were learning the lesson far too quickly.
For a long while neither of them spoke.
Then Garrick rose to his feet.
"We'll leave at first light."
Soren nodded.
The captain turned toward the stairs, but halfway there he stopped without looking back.
"There are wolves who would follow you into hell."
The words lingered in the darkness.
"But even wolves need a reason to believe they'll come back."
Then he walked away, leaving Soren alone with the rain. The silence felt heavier than the pain.