The smoke followed them.
Not in truth—
The wind carried it elsewhere.
But Corvyn felt it still.
A signal sent into the sky.
A mark left behind.
They rode deeper into the Wolfswood.
Fewer men now.
More cautious.
Every shadow watched.
Every sound mattered.
Ser Halric broke the silence first.
"They'll come for us."
Corvyn nodded.
"Yes."
"No more scattered camps," Halric continued. "No more easy strikes."
Corvyn glanced toward the trees.
"They will change their tactics."
Halric smirked faintly.
"Good. I was getting tired of winning."
Corvyn did not respond.
Ahead, one of the scouts raised his hand.
The column slowed instantly.
Corvyn moved forward.
"What is it?"
The scout pointed toward the ground.
Tracks.
But not like before.
Not organized.
Not marching.
Scattered.
Broken.
Halric frowned.
"This isn't a patrol."
Corvyn crouched low, studying the marks in the snow.
"Too many directions," he murmured.
"Too much movement."
The scout nodded.
"They were running."
Halric's expression sharpened.
"From what?"
Corvyn's gaze lifted slowly.
The forest around them felt… different.
Not empty.
Not hostile.
Something else.
Something unseen.
A raven cried above.
Short.
Uneasy.
Corvyn stood.
"We follow."
Halric blinked.
"Follow the fleeing enemy?"
Corvyn nodded.
"They lead us to something."
The riders pressed forward, following the scattered trail through the trees.
The deeper they went…
The quieter it became.
Until—
They found it.
A clearing.
Small.
Hidden.
And filled with bodies.
Bolton soldiers.
Dozens of them.
Dead.
Not from battle.
Not from arrows.
Their bodies were twisted.
Broken.
As if something had torn through them without mercy.
Halric stepped forward slowly.
"What in the Seven Hells…"
One of the men knelt beside a corpse.
"No blade wounds," he said quietly.
"No arrows."
Corvyn walked into the clearing.
His eyes moved carefully across the scene.
Measuring.
Understanding.
This was not chaos.
This was controlled.
Precise.
Like a hunt.
But not theirs.
A faint sound echoed from the far side of the clearing.
A branch shifting.
A breath.
Corvyn's hand went to Nightfeather instantly.
"Show yourself," he said calmly.
Silence answered him.
Then—
From the shadows between the trees…
A figure stepped forward.
Not Bolton.
Not Ravaryn.
Something else.
Watching them.