The third horn call hadn't faded before Astrid and Signe were already in the corridor. The keep was alive with noise: boots hammering on stone, voices barking orders, steel pulled from racks. Torchlight swung wildly as men and women rushed toward the outer walls.
Astrid strode quickly, Signe at her heels, carrying her half-fastened armor. They passed Shieldguard already donning helms, wolf-cloaks thrown over broad shoulders. The air was thick with urgency, but also confusion. This was no ordinary raid.
When they reached the southern gate, the stench hit them first: blood, wet fur, and frost. Direwolves, massive and lean, their eyes burning with wild hunger, were hurling themselves against the palisade, teeth gnashing, claws raking. Dozens of them. Too many for a single pack.
Astrid's eyes narrowed. Wolves don't gather like this. Not here. Not now.
"Shields up!" bellowed Torvald, one of her elder brothers, his voice cutting through the clash. He swung his axe into the throat of a wolf that had broken through the first line, blood spraying across the snow.
Egil was already at the wall, cloak half-thrown over his shoulders, sword flashing in the firelight. "Push them back! Hold the gate!"
Astrid buckled her breastplate into place, tightening the straps with sharp, practiced tugs. Signe moved quickly to fasten the vambraces around her arms, hands steady despite the chaos.
"Too many," Astrid muttered under her breath, lilac eyes scanning the frenzy. "This isn't chance."
Signe glanced at her, voice low so only Astrid could hear. "Then whose hand drives them?"
Astrid didn't answer. Her gaze flicked once toward the keep, where Verdelund's banners still hung from the southern wing.
Steel rang as another wave of wolves broke through. Astrid drew her sword, the blade glinting cold in the firelight.
"Stay close," she told Signe, though her handmaiden carried no weapon. Then she stepped forward, her voice cutting sharp over the din.
"Vinterhall! Form on me!"
The Shieldguard nearest her shifted without hesitation, rallying to her position as she drove into the line. Her blade struck clean, cutting through matted fur and bone, each movement sharp and measured, her frustration from the feast now channeled into every strike.
The snow ran dark with blood.
And still the wolves came.
Astrid's blade split the skull of another direwolf clean through, hot breath and blood spraying across the froststone wall. She tore the weapon free and pivoted into another strike. Around her, the Shieldguard fought hard, shields interlocked, axes and spears thrusting in tight rhythm.
But something gnawed at her mind.
The wolves did not scatter when cut down. They pressed on, even over the bodies of their own packmates. Their eyes burned too bright, their movements too sharp. Less like beasts driven by hunger, more like soldiers following a command.
Astrid slashed through another, then froze for half a breath as the torchlight caught on its pelt. A faint mark, seared into the hide: rune-scars blackened against the fur. The pattern was jagged, not of any northern warding she recognized, and the stench rising from the wound carried not just blood, but something acrid.
Her stomach tightened. This is wrong.
Another wolf lunged. She met it with steel, driving the blade up beneath its ribs, but her eyes kept sweeping. More of the beasts bore the same scars, glowing faintly when they neared the firelight.
Astrid grit her teeth. These weren't wild. Someone had driven them here.
"Torvald!" she shouted, cutting down another with a clean arc. "Look at their hides!"
Her brother snarled back, blood streaking his cheek. "I don't care—kill them all!"
Astrid's jaw tightened, but her gaze flicked again toward the keep, toward the southern wing where Verdelund's men slept behind guarded doors.
Too many wolves. Too well-timed. And the marks burned with a hand that was not northern.
Her grip tightened around the hilt. This is no raid. This was planned.
Astrid cut another wolf down, its weight crashing hard into the snow at her feet. She raised her sword again, ready for the next lunge—
But it never came.
As one, the direwolves pulled back. Their snarls still rang through the night, but their bodies shifted, retreating in a sudden wave. From the wall to the gate, the beasts disengaged, eyes burning red in the torchlight as they turned into the dark.
The Shieldguard froze, weapons raised, waiting for another charge. None came.
The retreat was too clean, too sudden. Wolves did not move like that.
Torvald roared from the line, axe still dripping. "Cowards! Chase them down!"
Egil's voice cut through, sharper, commanding. "Hold!" He raised his sword, pointing it toward the gate. "They'll scatter. Do not break formation."
The men obeyed, though some spat curses into the snow. The sound of claws faded into the night until only the crackle of torches and the ragged breath of warriors remained.
Astrid stood still, her sword lowered only a fraction. Her lilac eyes swept the blood-streaked ground, then the shadows beyond the gate. The rune-scars she had seen still burned in her mind. Wolves did not retreat like soldiers unless someone had called them back.
Someone had wanted them here. And someone had decided the attack was finished.
She tightened her grip on the hilt, jaw set hard. This was no accident.
Behind her, the Shieldguard began cheering their survival. Astrid did not join them.
The chamber door shut with a quiet click, muffling the distant horns and shouting from the walls. Leif strode across the room, his boots silent on the stone. His men followed, grim and efficient, the faint stench of wolf-blood clinging to their cloaks.
One by one, they slipped the signet rings from their fingers. The enchantments unraveled at once, like fog burned away by fire. Their courtly disguises dissolved, leaving alabaster skin, sharp fangs, and crimson eyes gleaming in the lamplight. The glamour of southern nobility was gone; what remained were predators.
Leif tugged his glove free with slow precision, then removed his own ring. His true form settled fully into place, colder and sharper than the mask he wore at court. He flexed his fingers once, the nails blackened and just slightly too long.
"Enough waiting," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of command. "The wolves have played their part. The North is rattled. Now we feed."
Ivan, his second, dipped his head. "The Shieldguard are stretched thin on the southern wall. The halls will be softer prey."
Leif's mouth curved into a thin smile, fangs catching the light. "Good. Let the barbarians savor their victory. While they cheer, we take what we came for."
Another of his men chuckled low, tongue sliding across his teeth. "And the girl, my prince?"
Leif's crimson eyes darkened, his gaze tilting toward the keep's higher levels where Astrid's chamber lay. "She is mine. No hand touches her until I decide it. The Accord must play its course before I claim her outright." He licked his lips once, sharp and deliberate. "But the rest? The feast will not end for them."
The vampires moved in silence, cloaks gathered, their inhuman beauty made monstrous under the torchlight. The keep's ancient wards, weakened by age and complacency, barely stirred as they slipped through the corridors.
Tonight, Vinterhall would bleed.
The courtyard beyond the gate was slick with blood, the air sharp with the stench of wolves. Torches burned high now, casting long shadows across the stone. Shieldguard gathered in tight ranks, dragging carcasses from the line and stacking them near the pyres. The night still rang with victory shouts: weapons clashed against shields, guttural chants rising from men and women who had faced death and stood.
Astrid wiped her blade clean against a fallen wolf's pelt, her expression set, pale hair plastered to her temple with sweat. She turned as Egil approached, cloak torn at the hem, sword still wet. His face was grim, but pride shone in his eyes.
"You stood firm," he said, voice low so the others wouldn't hear. "Your command steadied the line when it faltered."
Torvald stomped up behind him, slamming the edge of his axe into the ground. "Hah! She did more than steady it. That strike she took split a wolf clean through—faster than I've ever seen." His broad grin was streaked with blood.
Astrid only shook her head. "Don't celebrate yet. That wasn't a hunt gone wrong. It was a test."
Her words drew a few looks, but before anyone could press further, Bjorn himself emerged from the keep. His cloak of wolf pelts hung heavy on his shoulders, his white beard stiff with cold. He was flanked by Shieldguard, and his presence alone hushed the noise.
"That girl…" he muttered as he neared, his pale eyes flicking once toward Astrid. "Freyja's blessing shows clearer every year."
Behind him came her mothers. Yrsa of the Grey Veil walked calm and deliberate, her staff faintly humming as the runes at its crown flickered with restrained power. Bryndis was at her side, her merchant's eye already scanning the courtyard, the practical wheels of her mind turning even here. And Svala, spear still in hand, strode forward with the same measured step she'd shown earlier in the training hall.
"Wolves," Bryndis said flatly, her tone edged with disbelief. "In numbers like this? Driven against stone walls? No. There's coin or blood behind it."
Svala only grunted, planting her spear against the ground. "The girl is right. This was not chance."
Yrsa's pale gaze lingered on the carcasses. Her lips moved faintly, whispering words no one else caught. The frost-runes on her staff dimmed, then she raised her eyes to the gathered family. "Their hides bear marks. Not of the North. Someone else sent them."
A silence followed, heavy, before Egil broke it. "Then we'll find who, and we'll answer in kind."
Astrid's lilac eyes swept the crowd, past her brothers, past her mothers, landing once more on the southern wing where Verdelund's banners stirred in the wind. She said nothing, but her jaw tightened, suspicion gnawing at her like a blade's edge.
The Shieldguard cheered again, relieved, shouting oaths to the gods. Astrid did not join them. Her eyes stayed on the keep, on the southern wing cloaked in shadow. Her knuckles whitened around her sword hilt.
Then it came.
A scream. High, sharp, and raw with terror. It cut across the courtyard, echoing through the stone corridors of the keep. It silenced the cheer at once.
Another cry followed, lower, choked—and abruptly cut off.
The Shieldguard froze. Some turned, confusion breaking across their faces. Others gripped weapons tighter, their victory draining to ash.
Bjorn's head snapped toward the keep, pale eyes flashing. "Inside." His voice was a command, cold and heavy.
Egil was already moving, sword in hand, cloak whipping behind him. Torvald spat into the snow, growling. "By the gods…" He hefted his axe and followed.
Astrid didn't wait for orders. She took off at a run, Signe close on her heels, the rest of the Vinterhall kin falling in behind her.
The horns had gone silent. Only the firelight and the echo of that scream remained.
The Vinterhalls moved fast, their boots thudding against the froststone floor. Torches flared as they passed, shadows stretching tall across the walls. The festive banners from the feast still hung overhead, now swaying faintly in the draft of opened doors.
Bjorn led with a heavy stride, his wolf-fur cloak dragging at his heels. Egil walked tight at his side, sword drawn, eyes cutting sharp through every arch and turn. Torvald gripped his axe with both hands, muttering curses under his breath.
Behind them came Astrid, her own blade ready, Signe keeping close to her shoulder. Her three mothers followed, each distinct: Yrsa's staff humming faintly, Bryndis' sharp eyes catching every detail, Svala's spear angled forward, jaw set.
The silence was wrong.
No songs. No chatter. No servants clearing tables. Only the drip of spilled drink from overturned cups, the faint creak of shutters in the wind, and the echo of their own march.
They turned a corner—and Astrid stopped dead.
A body lay across the flagstones. One of the Shieldguard. His throat had been torn wide open, blood pooling black in the torchlight. His sword was still in his hand, though his eyes stared empty at the ceiling.
Torvald swore, low and harsh. Egil knelt, checked the man's neck, then shook his head. "Not a wolf. Too clean."
Astrid crouched beside him, lilac eyes narrowing. The flesh wasn't shredded; it had been pierced, two sharp punctures just above the vein. She touched the wound, then pulled back, her fingers coming away slick.
Her voice was flat, cold. "This was no beast."
Signe's face paled, but she held steady, hands folded tight in front of her apron.
From deeper in the hall came another sound. Not a scream this time, but a wet, dragging noise—like something being pulled across stone.
The Vinterhalls froze.
Bjorn's pale eyes narrowed to slits. "Stay sharp."
They pressed deeper into the corridors. The air grew heavier, thick with the copper tang of blood.
At the first junction, they found two more bodies—servants this time, their aprons torn and stained. One lay crumpled against the wall, eyes wide, her lifeblood soaked into the rushes. The other had been dragged halfway across the floor, leaving a smeared trail behind him.
Bryndis crouched, lips pressed thin as her fingers hovered above the blood. "Fresh. Minutes, at most."
Torvald gripped his axe tighter, the cords in his neck standing out. "Then they're still here."
"Of course they are," Yrsa murmured, voice low but steady. She touched her staff to the stone, runes sparking faintly. "No wolf left these marks. This is the work of cunning hands."
They moved on.
Chairs lay overturned in the next chamber, goblets scattered, their spilled contents mingling with the darker stains streaking the stone. A tapestry hung half-torn from its hooks, the image of a Vinterhall stag marred by clawed rents.
Svala paused only long enough to plant her boot against the door ahead and shove it open.
More silence. More blood.
Astrid kept to the front, lilac eyes sharp, every step tightening the knot in her chest. The memories of the feast only hours earlier—laughter, firelight, music—mocked her now in these ruined halls.
Then, from ahead, came the sound.
A wet tear. A muffled groan. The scrape of something heavy being dragged across the stone floor.
Every head turned.
Bjorn lifted his hand, and the Vinterhalls stopped as one. The old wolf's pale eyes narrowed. "The Winter Hall," he said, voice low and grim.
Astrid's grip on her sword tightened until her knuckles whitened.
They were close. Too close.
The Vinterhalls slowed as they neared the broad doors of the Winter Hall. The torchlight here burned low, guttering against the froststone, leaving long shadows that stretched across the floor.
Astrid raised a hand, signaling Signe to keep close behind her. Her sword hovered just above ready, the steel whispering softly as it shifted in her grip.
From beyond the doors came the sound.
Not voices. Not laughter. Not the din of a feast.
A wet, sucking noise, punctuated by the low groan of someone not yet dead. Then a thud—heavy and final—followed by the scrape of something dragged across the floor.
Bryndis' eyes flicked toward Egil. Her voice was little more than a whisper. "That is no wolf's work."
Yrsa's staff hummed faintly, its runes glowing in response to whatever lay beyond. "Blood magic," she said softly, crystal-blue gaze fixed on the doors. "The kind that feeds, not wards."
Astrid moved closer, breath tight in her chest. She pressed her shoulder lightly to the doorframe and peered through the crack.
Shadows shifted within. She caught the faint outline of a man bent low, his shoulders moving with a rhythm too deliberate. A body dangled from his grasp, limp, its feet dragging across the stone. Another figure straightened in the firelight, wiping a crimson hand across his pale chin.
Crimson eyes glowed in the dark.
Astrid's stomach twisted, but her grip on the sword only hardened.
She pulled back, turning to her family. Her voice was low, cold. "They're feeding."
Bjorn's face set like stone, wolf-fur bristling against his shoulders. "Then we end it."
He shoved the doors wide.
The Winter Hall lay before them, defiled—its furs soaked in blood, its banners torn, its hearth fire burning bright against a floor scattered with corpses. Figures stood among them, pale and beautiful, their mouths wet with red.
The Verdelunds turned as one.