Iron Howl’s gates bled.

Not metaphor. Not omen. Real blood dripped down the iron bars, hissing when it touched the stone. Wolves gathered in silence, their paws and boots slick with it, their eyes flicking to the horizon.

And there she stood.

The Huntress of Hollowbone.

Tall. bone crown glinting pale in the dawn. Antlers rising like a tree of death from her skull. Her cloak writhed as if stitched from the skins of wolves still howling. In her hand, a spear carved from a single rib, ...