The night of the winter fire oath arrived under a sky the color of iron.
Snow had not settled yet, but the air carried that waiting cold that made every breath feel sharper and every sound travel farther than it should. Grimridge held itself tightly from the inside out. The inner courtyard had been swept clean of slush and old leaves, the fire basin reset with stacked oak and birch, the roofline watchers placed high enough to see beyond the walls, and the narrow entrances into the yard had been reduced to controlled lines watched by wolves Cassian trusted with more than their teeth.
Nothing about it looked festive.
This was not a celebration. It was not softness stolen in the middle of war. It was a pack choosing what it would call itself before winter closed around them, and Cassian had stripped the night down to what mattered. Fire. Witness. Oath. Bloodline. Protection.
