Fate.
The word rises unbidden as I wrap my arms around her neck and breathe in the familiar scent of horse and leather and home. She shouldn't have survived the storm. Shouldn't have been able to track me across miles of wilderness. Shouldn't have found this camp hidden in the middle of nowhere.
But she did.
"The spirits speak clearly tonight," the chief elder observes, her voice carrying across the wind with surprising clarity. "Perhaps too clearly for coincidence."
I look up from Shadowmere's neck to find the entire clan watching us with expressions that range from wonder to suspicion to something that might be fear.
What aren't they telling me?
But before I can ask, Kira pushes forward from the crowd. The seer's pale eyes are wide with something close to terror, and her voice shakes as she speaks.
"The ice-dreams change," she whispers. "Blood still flows, but..." She stops, swallowing hard. "But the ending is different now."
Different how?
The question burns on my tongue, but the storm chooses that moment to unleash its full fury. Wind howls, driving snow so thick it turns the world white. Clan members scatter toward their tents with practiced efficiency, leaving me alone with Shadowmere and a growing certainty that my arrival has set something in motion.
Something that can't be stopped.
4
VORRAK
The mare's breath clouds the air between us as I approach, each step deliberate against the treacherous ground. Snow crunches beneath my boots with the particular sound of deep cold and packed ice. The beast watches me with intelligent dark eyes, her ears pricked forward despite the obvious exhaustion that weighs down her frame.
Remarkable.
Few creatures survive the Northern Reach storms alone. Fewer still possess the will to seek out strangers in unknown territory. This animal carries something more than mere horse-sense, something the old bonds between spirit and flesh that my grandmother used to whisper about during the longest nights.
"Easy," I murmur in the old tongue, extending one hand palm-up toward her muzzle.
She sniffs cautiously, then allows the contact. Her nose is warm and soft against my skin, a startling contrast to the harsh angles and bitter cold that define this place. Behind me, I hear Cyra's sharp intake of breath.
"You're good with her."
I glance back to find the noblewoman watching us with an expression caught between surprise and something deeper. Gratitude, perhaps. Or recognition of a skill she hadn't expected from someone like me.
Someone like me.
The phrase tastes bitter. I know what she sees when she looks at me. Orc blood, clan marks, the crude leather and bone that mark me as barbarian. Her world has no place for nuance when it comes to my kind.
But her mare accepts my touch without hesitation.
"Animals see truth," I tell her, keeping my voice low to avoid spooking the horse. "No lies in scent or movement."
The mare's injured leg draws my attention next. She favors it heavily, though she's trying to hide the weakness. Pride runs strong in this one. Another trait of careful breeding and intelligent handling.
Noble stock.
"She needs tending," I observe, running careful fingers along the swollen joint. "Food. Warmth. Rest."
"Can you help her?" The question comes quickly, edged with worry that she can't quite hide.
I meet her gaze across the mare's neck. In the firelight, her eyes hold depths I hadn't noticed before, not just fear and confusion, but genuine concern for this animal. Not the calculated interest of someone worried about losing valuable property, but something warmer.
Interesting.
