The day bleeds into evening in a blur of fortress business.
I review defenses personally. Walk the walls. Check weapon stores. Interrogate the wounded from last night’s patrol—they saw nothing, heard nothing, just darkness and steel.
Every task reinforces the same truth: my hold on the clan is fracturing.
And I can’t stop it.
By the time the sun sets behind the mountains, exhaustion wars with restless energy. Instead of eating or sleeping, I climb to the high tower.
To her corridor.
Four guards stand at attention outside Zoraya’s chamber when I arrive. Different faces than this morning—I had the previous shift taken to the dungeons an hour ago. They’ll be questioned thoroughly. Painfully.
These new guards snap to attention, fists over hearts.
“Leave,” I order.
They exchange glances. “Warlord, the standing orders?—”
“Are mine to change. Leave. Now.”
They retreat quickly, relieved to be elsewhere.
I approach the door and stop.
Fresh scratch marks gouge the wood at chest height. Deep enough to splinter the grain. Deliberate.
Cold spreads through my chest, then fire.
Below the scratches: a symbol carved into the surface. A wolf’s head with jaws open.
The same symbol on the shackles around Zoraya’s wrists.
The same symbol I had burned into that iron two days ago.
Someone marked her door. Someone with access to this corridor. Someone bold enough to threaten what’s mine under my own roof.
I trace the carving with one claw. The blade was sharp, the hand skilled. This wasn’t vandalism. This was a message.
We can reach her. Protected or not.
The guards didn’t report this. Which means they saw it happen and said nothing. Or they’re too afraid to admit they failed.
Both options end the same way.
I pull my belt knife and scrape a sample from the gouge marks. The angle of the cuts, the depth—I’ll compare them to every warrior’s blade if I have to.
The conspiracy runs deeper than I thought.
I ease the door open without a sound.
The room is dark except for dying firelight. Shadows dance across the walls. The window shutters are closed, barred from inside.
Smart.
Zoraya sits on the bed with her back against the wall, sewing awl gripped in her hand. Staring at the door with eyes that don’t blink.
She hasn’t slept. Shadows bruise beneath her eyes. Her hair is tangled, falling loose around her shoulders. The awl hasn’t left her grip. She hasn’t closed her eyes once.
