The forest swallows me whole as I make my way down from the ridge, the scent of pine sharp, the snow crunching underfoot, the night colder than bone. My fox presses against me, restless, ears pricked, tail stiff, but I keep him down, force myself to move slow, careful, measured. Roman’s reach coils through these woods like smoke, his sentries scattered where even shadows hide. If I falter, if I slip, if I let my fox press too close to the surface, they’ll scent me before I step into camp.
I know this path. I’ve walked it too many times, though tonight feels different. Every tree, every rock, every echo of the river running somewhere beneath the ice carries weight heavier than the years I gave Roman. My chest tightens, my jaw clenches, but I keep moving, my steps sure, my eyes cutting through dark.
The first torches glow faint between the trees, their light swaying in the night, casting long, broken shadows. The air thickens, the scent of fox and steel burning in my throat. Roman’s camp spreads wide across a frozen clearing, tentsbraced against the snow, fires burning low, soldiers moving like restless wolves, their voices sharp but clipped.
I step into it slow, my hood low, my gait the same as it has always been—calm, steady, unbothered. To them, I am still one of Roman’s blades, still his shadow. A fox’s scent never changes, and mine is buried deep enough in this camp that none look too long, none ask.
But I feel their eyes.
Always watching. Always waiting.
I pass the rows of tents, their canvas flapping low against the wind, the firelight spilling from cracks, the mutter of voices inside sharp with talk of war. I hear Roman’s name more than once, his commands spoken like gospel, his promises cutting sharper than steel. The foxes here are loyal, not because they love him, but because they fear him.
And then I hear something else.
A sound soft, low, but raw. Not fox. Not wolf.
A cry.
I turn, slow, careful, until I see it—a smaller tent near the edge of camp, guarded by two men. Their arms are crossed, their eyes sharp, their bodies tense in a way that tells me what’s inside isn’t something ordinary. The cry comes again, muffled, but heavy with pain.
I wait until they move, until one steps away to piss against a tree, the other distracted by a soldier calling him over. Then I slip close, my steps soundless, my hand pressing against the flap of canvas. I pull it back just enough to see inside.
Witches.
Three of them, shackled with iron chains, their wrists raw, their faces pale and drawn. Symbols cut into their skin glow faint red, burning into their flesh like brands. Ritual marks. Roman isn’t just holding them. He’s using them. Their power bleeds into the air, twisted, dark, pulled against their will.
One of them lifts her head, her eyes glassy but sharp enough to find me. Her lips part, a whisper tearing free. “Help.”
My chest tightens. My fox snarls low, pressing hard.
I step inside, quick and quiet, crouching low. “Stay still,” I murmur, my voice low, rough. “I’ll get you free.”
My hands move fast, pulling at the chains, my strength grinding against the iron, my breath harsh in my chest. One lock snaps, the sound sharp. The witch gasps, her arm sagging free, blood streaking down her wrist.
But before I can break the second, the flap rips back.
“Silas.”
Roman’s voice fills the space like a blade pressed against my throat.
I freeze, my hand still wrapped around the chain, my body tight. I turn slow, my wolf bristling, and there he is.
Roman.
Tall, broad, his coat heavy with fur, his hair black as pitch, his eyes burning amber with a fire too steady, too sharp. His presence alone silences the camp outside, the air pressing down heavy as stone.
He steps inside, his gaze cutting to the freed witch, then to me. A smile curves his lips, cold and sharp. “So. The fox comes crawling home.”
The guards step in behind him, their blades drawn. Roman doesn’t need them. He could gut me with a look.
I let the chain fall, my hands curling into fists. “You’re using witches now.”
His smile widens. “Not using. Harnessing. Why waste power that bleeds so sweetly? They open doors wolves and foxes cannot even dream of. And soon, they will open the one door I’ve been waiting for.”
The witches flinch, their bodies trembling, their breath ragged. I feel the pull of their magic, twisted and raw, clawing at the edges of the air.
“You’ll burn them out,” I growl, my voice low. “They’ll die before you ever get what you want.”
