That was not something hungry peasants did by accident.
That was not something raiders did unless they were careful.
That was a soldier's thought.
Eirik's voice stayed flat. "What else?"
Styr hesitated. "Stakes," he said. "Hidden under snow near the path. And rocks piled above the slope like they meant to drop them."
Eirik thought of the horn being smashed.
Someone understood signals.
Someone understood funnels.
Someone understood the simple truth that a narrow path killed men better than a wide field.
"Did you see the boy?" Eirik asked.
Styr nodded. "Not close. But I saw him."
"How?"
"He came out," Styr said. "Not far. Just enough. Like he wanted to be seen. Then he vanished back into trees. It was like…" He frowned, searching for the right words. "Like bait."
Eirik felt the cold settle deeper.
Korr's voice was quiet. "A trap."
"Aye," Styr said. "A trap."
Eirik's gaze drifted over the faces in the hollow. He saw fear. He saw anger. He saw the thin bright edge of hunger.
And he saw something else.
Respect.
Not for Eirik.
For whoever had done this.
For the mind that had made a cabin in the Gift and defended it like a fort.
That respect was dangerous. It could turn into talk. It could turn into the kind of talk that made men choose a new leader.
Eirik tightened his grip on his axe.
He did not lose men to a village and then lose men to whispers.
Not if he could help it.
"How many survivors?" he asked.
Styr shrugged. "Hard to say. Five. Maybe more. Tracks are muddied. They move careful. They cover."
"Five can't do all that," someone muttered.
Eirik's eyes snapped to the voice. The man flinched.
"Five can if they're smart," Eirik said. "Five can if they're desperate."
Styr looked at him. "They're not only desperate," he said.
Eirik held his gaze. "What did you see?"
Styr swallowed. "They had iron."
The hollow went still.
Not stone.
Not bone.
Iron.
Even a few scraps of iron changed everything.
Eirik's mouth tightened. "How do you know?"
Styr reached into his fur and pulled out a small object wrapped in cloth. When he unwrapped it, Eirik saw the glint.
A nail.
Not one of the three nails they'd taken from Hollow. This one was straighter. Cleaner. A different shape. Hammered with care.
Styr held it out. "Found it near the path," he said. "Dropped. Or left."
Eirik took it between thumb and forefinger. The cold bit. The iron felt heavier than it should for its size.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Iron meant tools.
Tools meant shelter that lasted.
Shelter that lasted meant settlement.
Settlement in the Gift, this close to the Wall, meant either the Watch was blind or someone had paid the Watch to look away.
Or someone was hiding well enough that the Watch never saw.
Eirik's thoughts moved like wolves around the same bone.
"Can we take it?" the young man asked, too quickly. The same young man who'd spat earlier. His hunger had found a new shape.
Eirik looked at him. "Maybe," he said.
The boy's eyes brightened.
Eirik crushed that hope before it could grow. "But not by charging," he added. "Not by setting fire and thinking fire solves every problem."
Korr's jaw tightened. "If they have iron," he murmured, "they have knives."
"And if they have knives," Eirik said, "they have choices."
Styr nodded. "They fought the scouts," he said quietly.
Eirik's eyes sharpened. "You saw bodies?"
Styr shook his head. "No. But… blood in snow. Drag marks. Not a panic. Clean."
Korr's mouth tightened. "They killed four and hid it."
Eirik stared at the nail again.
A boy with eyes like a starving wolf.
A cabin half sunk into stone.
Trip lines.
Stakes.
Iron.
Clean kills.
This wasn't a village anymore. This was a rival.
Or a threat.
Or a prize.
"Where is it?" Eirik asked.
Styr pointed with a stiff hand. "Half a day east. Near a warm stream."
Korr blinked. "A warm stream."
Styr nodded. "Steam off it. Even in this cold."
A warm stream in the Gift was more than comfort. It was life. It was water that didn't freeze. It was a place you could wash wounds. A place you could keep children from turning blue. A place you could build and not die as quickly.
Eirik felt his people behind him shift. He felt their hunger sharpen into something like longing.
Longing was dangerous too. It made men foolish.
But it also made them follow.
Eirik stood.
He held the nail up so all could see it.
"This," he said, voice calm, "is why Hollow wasn't easy."
The men watched.
Some looked angry. Some looked afraid. Some looked hungry in a way that made Eirik want to spit.
He lowered the nail. "We do not go there today," he said.
A growl went through the hollow.
Eirik raised his hand, cutting it.
"We do not go there today," he repeated. "Because we are tired and wounded and half-fed. We go there today and we die like dogs in snow. We go there today and the boy laughs at us while he counts our bodies."
The young man's mouth tightened. "Then when?"
Eirik's eyes stayed on him. "Tonight," he said.
The boy blinked. "Tonight?"
Eirik nodded. "We go in dark. We watch. We count. We see who moves like a leader and who moves like prey. And then we decide whether we take it or whether we burn it and walk away."
Korr's voice was low. "Burn a warm stream?"
Eirik's mouth twisted. "You can't burn water," he said. "But you can burn shelter. You can burn stores. You can burn hope."
Korr held his gaze. "And if hope is what keeps us alive?"
Eirik felt the truth of that, sharp and ugly.
He answered anyway. "Hope is a story," he said. "Meat is real."
He turned to Styr. "You take two and rest," he ordered. "You take one and show me the path on the ground. Not on air. Not with words."
Styr nodded, grim.
Eirik looked around the hollow. "No one speaks of this to the children," he said. "No one tells them there is warmth ahead unless we can put it in their hands."
A woman's voice, bitter. "Too late. They smell it on you."
Eirik didn't look at her. "Then you tell them it's a lie," he said. "You tell them the Gift plays tricks. You tell them warm things kill."
No one argued. They didn't have the breath.
Eirik sat again, pulled his cloak tighter, and watched his people prepare without fire.
He felt the weight settle on his shoulders, heavier than any fur.
A leader could choose hunger.
A leader could choose safety.
But a leader could not choose a world that didn't punish every choice.
Tonight, he would go see the cabin.
Tonight, he would see the boy.
And if the boy was truly a leader--
Eirik's fingers tightened on the axe haft until the wood creaked.
--then the North would have to decide which leaders lived.