Corvyn moved first.
No shout.
No warning.
Only motion.
He slipped through the trees like a shadow given form, Nightfeather held low, its black edge drinking the faint firelight.
Behind him, the men of Ravenhold followed.
Silent.
Deadly.
The Bolton camp lay unaware.
A few soldiers sat near the fire, their voices low, their attention dulled by false safety.
One man laughed.
It was the last sound he would ever make.
Corvyn closed the distance in a heartbeat.
Nightfeather rose—
—and fell.
The blade cut clean through cloth, flesh, and bone.
The laughter died in a wet gasp.
At the same moment, the forest erupted.
Ravaryn men struck from every side.
Daggers flashed in the dark.
Arrows flew from unseen angles.
A Bolton soldier turned just in time to see death rushing toward him.
Too late.
Steel met steel for the first time.
The silence shattered.
"Ambush!" someone shouted.
Chaos followed.
Bolton men scrambled for weapons, overturning benches, kicking embers into the snow.
But confusion was already their enemy.
They could not see clearly.
They could not form ranks.
They could not understand where the attack came from.
Corvyn was already among them.
His blade moved like a whisper.
One cut.
One kill.
No wasted motion.
A soldier lunged at him from the side.
Corvyn turned smoothly, parrying the strike and driving Nightfeather into the man's chest.
The body fell without a sound.
Another rushed forward.
Corvyn stepped aside and struck again.
Blood stained the snow.
Dark.
Spreading.
Ser Halric crashed into the fight like a storm.
Unlike Corvyn, he did not move in silence.
His sword roared through the air, breaking defenses with brute force.
"Come on then!" he bellowed.
A Bolton soldier met him head-on.
The clash lasted seconds.
Halric's blade split the man's guard and sent him sprawling lifeless into the snow.
Around them, the fight burned fast and brutal.
The ambush had done its work.
The Boltons were already losing.
One of them tried to run.
A raven's cry split the air above.
Corvyn's head snapped up.
His eyes tracked the fleeing figure instantly.
He moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
The man barely made it five steps before Nightfeather cut him down from behind.
Silence began to return.
One by one, the sounds of fighting faded.
Steel lowered.
Breathing slowed.
The camp was still.
Corvyn stood in the center of it, his blade dark with blood.
Snow fell lightly around him.
Soft.
Unbothered.
As if nothing had happened.
Halric wiped his blade on a fallen cloak.
"Well," he muttered, looking around, "that went better than expected."
Corvyn did not respond.
His gaze moved across the bodies.
Counting.
Measuring.
"This was not their full force," he said quietly.
Halric frowned.
"No," he agreed. "Not even close."
One of the scouts approached.
"My lord," he said, "we found maps."
Corvyn turned.
"Show me."
The scout handed him a blood-stained parchment.
Corvyn unfolded it slowly.
His eyes narrowed.
The map marked more than just this camp.
Paths.
Positions.
Movements.
Not one force…
But many.
Halric stepped closer.
"Seven hells…"
Corvyn looked up toward the dark trees beyond the camp.
The forest no longer felt empty.
It felt alive.
Watching.
Waiting.
"They're already inside the Wolfswood," he said.
His grip tightened on Nightfeather.
"And this…"
He glanced once more at the map.
"…was only the beginning."