The Wolfswood swallowed them whole.
No paths.
No roads.
Only trees and shadow.
Corvyn moved at the front, the map's memory guiding him through the dark.
Behind him, his men followed in silence.
Even Ser Halric kept his usual remarks to himself.
This was no place for noise.
They traveled for hours.
Through thick snow and frozen undergrowth.
Across narrow ridges and half-hidden streams.
Until at last—
A faint glow appeared through the trees.
Firelight.
Corvyn raised a hand.
The column stopped instantly.
One scout crept forward, disappearing into the dark.
Moments stretched.
The forest held its breath.
Then the scout returned.
"Camp ahead," he whispered. "Larger than the last."
Halric exhaled quietly.
"How many?"
"Thirty… maybe more."
Corvyn's eyes narrowed.
Twice their number.
But numbers meant little in the Wolfswood.
"What do you see?" he asked.
"Watch rotations. Patrols. They're more careful than the last group."
Corvyn nodded slowly.
"They've learned."
Halric gave a thin smile.
"Good. Makes it more interesting."
Corvyn crouched low, studying the terrain.
The camp sat in a shallow dip between trees.
Fire at the center.
Tents spread outward.
Guards posted at the edges.
Organized.
Prepared.
Not careless.
Corvyn's voice dropped.
"We don't strike the center."
Halric frowned.
"No?"
Corvyn pointed toward the outer edges of the camp.
"We cut the perimeter."
He traced invisible lines in the air.
"Take out the guards first. Quietly."
The men leaned in, listening.
"Then we collapse inward," Corvyn continued.
"Fast. Before they can regroup."
Halric nodded.
"Divide them. Break them."
Corvyn looked at his men.
"No mistakes."
No one spoke.
They didn't need to.
Each man knew his role.
Each man knew the cost of failure.
Corvyn slowly drew Nightfeather.
The black blade caught no light.
It simply… existed.
Waiting.
A raven called once above them.
Sharp.
Clear.
Corvyn moved.
The men split into smaller groups, vanishing into the trees.
Shadows among shadows.
At the edge of the Bolton camp, a guard shifted his weight.
He rubbed his hands together, trying to fight the cold.
He never saw the blade that cut his throat.
Another guard turned at the faint sound.
Too late.
Steel slipped between his ribs.
One by one, the outer defenses vanished.
Silent.
Precise.
Corvyn waited.
Counting.
Measuring the moment.
Then—
He stepped forward.
"Now."
The forest exploded into motion.
Ravaryn men surged inward from every direction.
Bolton soldiers barely had time to react.
Confusion spread instantly.
"Where are they—?"
The question died in blood.
Corvyn cut through the camp like winter wind.
Fast.
Unstoppable.
Nightfeather rose and fell.
Again.
Again.
Men dropped before they could understand what hunted them.
Halric crashed into the center with a roar.
His blade shattered a shield, sending its owner sprawling.
"Too slow!" he shouted.
The camp descended into chaos.
But this time, it did not last long.
Without their guards…
Without order…
They broke quickly.
Some tried to fight.
Most tried to flee.
None escaped.
The battle ended as suddenly as it began.
Silence returned once more.
Broken only by the crackling fire.
Corvyn stood among the fallen.
Breathing steady.
Unshaken.
Halric wiped blood from his blade.
"That makes two," he said.
Corvyn nodded.
"Five remain."
He looked toward the deeper forest.
Darker now.
Colder.
More dangerous.
The Boltons had spread their net.
But piece by piece…
Corvyn Ravaryn was tearing it apart.