The first sound was not steel.

Not howls.

Not war cries.

It was drums.

Beaten on hollow ribs, stretched with wolf-hide. The sound crawled across the valley, rattling through marrow, thrumming against the walls of Iron Howl.

I stood on the battlements, cloak of fire rising behind me, staring down into a sea of pale banners.

The Huntress had come.

Her army moved with unnatural rhythm, every wolf stepping in time to the bone-drums. Their eyes shone silver, their mouths painted with blood ...