Torren saw the raiders long before the valley did.
The morning had been cold and clear, the kind of mountain morning when every distant ridge seemed carved from glass. Frost clung to the shaded stones beneath Torren's hands as he lay flat along the familiar ridge above the Painted Dogs valley. From there he could see the narrow southern trail winding through the lower slopes, a thin scar of pale dirt cutting through the dark green of pine and rock.
For a long time there had been nothing.
Only wind.
Only mountains.
Then movement appeared.
At first it was only a flicker along the trail—something shifting between the trees far below. Torren narrowed his red eyes and leaned forward slightly, bracing his elbows against the rock.
More shapes followed.
Not one or two.
Many.
A long column of figures emerged slowly from the forested slope, moving upward along the mountain path in staggered clusters.
Torren felt excitement spark in his chest.
Painted faces.
Fur cloaks.
Axes resting on shoulders.
The raiders were coming home.
He counted quickly as they climbed.
Ten.
Twenty.
Thirty.
The line stretched further down the trail than he had first realized. Some warriors carried bundles slung over their backs. Others dragged sacks that clinked faintly against stone with every step. Two men led a pair of stolen mules loaded with goods tied in rough cloth bundles.
Torren kept watching.
Then he saw something else.
Four figures walked in the middle of the column, their movement slower and uneven compared to the others.
Prisoners.
Their hands were tied behind their backs and dark cloth covered their eyes. Two of them wore long dresses, torn from travel and struggle. A third woman stumbled slightly as she walked, guided forward by a rope held by one of the warriors.
And among them—
One man.
His posture was straighter than the others even with his hands bound. His clothing was too fine for a farmer: dark riding leathers, fitted boots, a cloak pinned with a small metal clasp.
Even at this distance Torren could see the difference.
Observation, the calm voice said inside his mind. The male captive displays indicators of noble status.
Torren tilted his head slightly.
You think he's important?
Clothing construction and posture suggest minor nobility or knightly household.
Torren watched the man carefully as the column climbed.
Interesting.
He pushed himself to his feet.
Below him, the warriors of the Painted Dogs were returning with more than meat and coin this time.
They had brought the lowlands with them.
Torren turned and began descending the ridge quickly.
The valley of the Painted Dogs erupted into movement the moment the first scouts spotted the returning raiders.
A shout rose near the cooking fires.
"They're back!"
Children ran toward the southern edge of camp until mothers and older warriors grabbed them and pulled them back. Women stepped from the shelters, wiping their hands on leather aprons. The older men who had remained behind during the raid rose slowly from their seats around the fires, spears already in hand out of habit.
Torren slipped through the gathering crowd and climbed onto a flat stone near the center of the valley.
From there he could see the entire column entering the camp.
Nearly sixty warriors in total.
They arrived in staggered groups as the trail widened into the valley floor, their laughter and rough voices echoing against the surrounding cliffs. Many of them looked tired from days of climbing and fighting, but the mood was good.
Very good.
Spoils of the raid hung everywhere.
Bundles of cloth.
Small chests.
Cooking pots.
Two warriors carried a sack that clinked unmistakably with metal coins.
The mules staggered under their loads of stolen supplies.
The prisoners were brought forward last.
The four captives stumbled as the raiders pushed them into the center of the clearing. The ropes around their wrists forced them forward in awkward steps. Their blindfolds kept them from seeing the hundreds of painted faces now surrounding them.
Murmurs spread through the crowd.
"Women."
"Lowlanders."
"Good hips."
Several of the younger warriors grinned openly.
Torren's attention remained on the man.
One of the raiders yanked the cloth from the prisoner's eyes.
The man blinked rapidly in the sunlight.
He was young—perhaps twenty years old. His hair was dark brown, tied loosely at the back in a way more common in the Vale's lowlands than in the mountains. His clothes were travel-stained now, but the quality was unmistakable: good leather, fine stitching, a cloak clasp engraved with a small crest.
Torren recognized the symbol immediately.
A red fortress.
House Redfort, the voice confirmed quietly.
Torren's eyes sharpened.
So he really is important.
The prisoner scanned the camp with growing disbelief.
Painted faces.
Red streaks beneath eyes.
Axes and spears everywhere.
The smell of smoke and blood.
His jaw tightened.
One of the raiders shoved him forward.
"Careful, little lord," the warrior said mockingly in the Old Tongue.
The prisoner stared blankly.
He clearly understood none of it.
The warrior laughed.
"Doesn't speak like us."
Another man stepped forward and spoke in the Common Tongue instead.
"You are in the mountains now."
The prisoner's eyes locked onto him.
"You've made a mistake," he said immediately.
His accent carried the clipped tone of the Vale's southern valleys.
"My father will pay for my return."
Laughter erupted among the Painted Dogs.
The warrior holding the rope jerked it roughly.
"Maybe."
The women's blindfolds were removed next.
Two of them immediately began crying. The third looked around wildly, panic rising in her breathing as she realized how many warriors surrounded them.
Torren studied them carefully.
They will become wives.
Yes, the voice confirmed.
Mountain clans frequently take women during raids.
Torren nodded faintly to himself.
Then a familiar figure stepped forward from the returning warriors.
Harrag.
Torren felt something warm rise in his chest as his father emerged from the crowd.
Harrag looked exactly as he always did after a raid: blood on one sleeve, a shallow cut across his cheek, and the relaxed confidence of a man who had once again survived the mountains and whatever enemies had waited beyond them.
His fur cloak hung loosely from one shoulder, and his axe rested easily against his back.
The warriors around him stepped aside without thinking.
Torren noticed.
Harrag wasn't the clan chief.
But he was respected.
The noble prisoner noticed him too.
Their eyes met.
The young Andal straightened despite the rope cutting into his wrists.
"My name is Ser Edwyn Redfort," he said sharply in the Common Tongue. "Release me now and my father may still show mercy."
One of the Painted Dogs snorted.
"Mercy."
Another warrior translated the insult for the others in the Old Tongue, earning another round of laughter.
Harrag stepped closer to the prisoner.
"You were not taken in Redfort lands," Harrag said slowly in broken Common Tongue. "You were taken on the road."
Edwyn's expression darkened.
"You ambushed us."
"Yes."
The simplicity of the answer clearly angered him more.
"My father will send knights."
"Perhaps."
Harrag's tone carried no fear.
Torren watched the exchange with fascination.
He's trying to negotiate.
Yes.
Will it work?
Unlikely.
Harrag turned slightly toward the warriors.
"Feed the women," he said in the Old Tongue. "They will live."
The ropes guiding the three women were cut, though their wrists remained loosely bound. They were led away toward the shelters where several of the older women waited to inspect them.
The nobleman remained.
Harrag gestured toward a wooden post near the center of camp.
"Bind him."
Two warriors forced Edwyn to his knees and secured the rope around the post.
The young knight struggled once, then stopped when he realized the effort was pointless.
Harrag's gaze moved across the camp.
Then he saw Torren.
Their eyes met across the clearing.
Harrag motioned with two fingers.
"Boy."
Torren stepped forward.
The surrounding clansmen watched with quiet interest as the pale child approached. Even among the Painted Dogs, Torren's appearance always drew attention.
White skin.
Shaved head.
Eyes red as fresh sap.
Harrag studied him briefly.
"I heard something interesting while we were gone," he said.
Torren remained calm.
"Oh?"
Cale stepped forward beside them.
"The boy saw Black Ears scouts," the old warrior said.
Harrag's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Did he."
"From the ridge."
Harrag looked back at Torren.
"How?"
Torren shrugged slightly.
"I climb high."
Several warriors nearby chuckled softly.
Harrag did not.
His eyes remained fixed on Torren for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he nodded once.
"Good."
The approval was simple, but Torren felt it like a reward.
Behind them, the captive knight watched the exchange closely.
His gaze moved between Harrag and the strange albino boy standing beside him.
Torren noticed.
He turned and met the prisoner's stare without blinking.
For the first time since his capture, uncertainty flickered across Edwyn Redfort's face.
Inside Torren's mind, the calm voice spoke quietly.
Observation: the prisoner is attempting to assess potential leadership structures within the clan.
Torren's lips curved slightly.
Let him wonder.
The fires of the Painted Dogs burned brighter as evening settled across the valley, and above them the mountains stood silent, watching another small piece of history unfold beneath their ancient stone.