The gates of Ravenhold opened before dawn.
Cold mist clung to the ground as a column of riders slipped quietly into the trees.
No banners flew.
No horns sounded.
Only the steady rhythm of hooves and the soft creak of leather broke the silence.
Corvyn rode at the front.
Nightfeather rested at his side, its dark steel hidden beneath his cloak.
Behind him followed twenty men—trackers, hunters, and silent killers raised in the shadow of the Wolfswood.
Ser Halric rode to his right.
"You finally got your wish," the knight muttered.
Corvyn did not look at him.
"I did not wish for war."
Halric smirked slightly.
"No," he said. "Just the part where you get to swing that pretty sword of yours."
Corvyn's gaze remained fixed ahead.
"This is not a battle," he said quietly.
"This is a hunt."
The trees closed around them as they entered the deeper forest.
Light faded quickly beneath the thick canopy.
Snow lay uneven across the ground, broken by tracks both fresh and old.
One of the scouts dismounted, kneeling low.
"Tracks," he whispered.
Corvyn halted his horse.
"How many?"
The scout studied the ground.
"At least a dozen… maybe more."
Halric frowned.
"Boltons?"
The scout nodded.
"Boot prints. Heavy. Organized."
Corvyn slid from his saddle.
He crouched beside the tracks, running a gloved hand lightly over the snow.
"They passed recently," he said.
"Not more than a few hours."
Halric exhaled slowly.
"So we're close."
Corvyn stood.
"Too close to ride."
He looked back at the men.
"From here, we move on foot."
The riders dismounted without question.
Horses were tied and hidden among the trees.
Weapons were checked in silence.
No one spoke loudly.
Even breathing seemed restrained.
The Wolfswood was no place for noise.
They moved forward like shadows.
Step by step.
Tree by tree.
A raven's cry echoed faintly above.
Corvyn glanced upward.
A single black shape circled high between the branches.
Watching.
Guiding.
Halric noticed it too.
"You and those birds…" he murmured.
Corvyn said nothing.
Ahead, one of the scouts raised a hand.
The entire group froze instantly.
Corvyn moved forward slowly.
The scout pointed ahead.
Through the trees, faint shapes flickered.
Firelight.
Halric's voice dropped to a whisper.
"That's them."
Corvyn's eyes narrowed.
Between the trees, he could now see figures moving around a small camp.
Bolton soldiers.
More than a dozen.
Armed.
Alert.
Waiting.
Corvyn slowly reached for Nightfeather.
The black blade slid silently from its sheath.
A cold shimmer ran along its edge.
Behind him, his men tensed.
Ready.
Watching.
Waiting.
Corvyn's voice was barely more than breath.
"Now…"
The forest seemed to hold its breath with him.
"…we strike."