Winter in Vaelthar was unforgiving.
Not the fields, not the bones, not the promises.
And yet, that night, Vaelmoor burned with light.
Amber torches blazed on the walls, blown glass lanterns hung from the halls, and the scent of roasting meat mingled with the incense of the ancestors. Clan Vaelthorn—guardian of balance, marked by the Silver Wolf—opened its doors for the first time in a hundred years.
A pact.
A new beginning.
But the guests did not come empty-handed.
They came with swords beneath cloaks, eyes fixed on the hills to the east—where mines of black coal, gold, and blue diamonds pulsed beneath the snow. Lands that, until now, only the Vaelthorn had the right to explore… and protect.
In the center of the hall, Lord Riven Vaelthorn raised his goblet.
"May the blood spilled in the past not be forgotten… but may we spill no more today."
Applause. Forced smiles.
In the shadow of the farthest column, Count Dain Bloodiron adjusted the leather glove on his right hand—the same hand that, hours before, had signed attack orders with the ink of his own royal signature.
He didn't want peace.
He wanted the Heart of the Wolf.
They said the relic was neither a stone nor a weapon—but a spiritual nexus, buried beneath the ancestral hall. Whoever controlled it would control not only the lands of the Vaelthorn, but the spirits of the dead, the wolves of the mountains, and even the course of the rivers.
With that, Dain would no longer need to ask the king for permission.
He would be king.
The signal came when the harps struck the wrong note—a sound too high-pitched, like shattering glass.
Then, the hall exploded.
Glass shattered even before the screams. Blood-Ironmen smashed through the doors with axes. Luminari archers, positioned on the ledges, launched arrows enveloped in white fire. Even the smallest clans, the "neutrals," the merchants masquerading as nobles, drew daggers—after all, gold buys loyalty faster than honor.
Lord Riven fell with a blade in his back.
His wife, Lady Elira, tried to reach the silver cradle in the children's room—but an arrow felled her on the steps of the stairs. Her eyes were still open, fixed on the north… as if she knew someone was coming.
Someone came.
Valeris wore no armor—only a worn leather cloak and the curved sword of the ancient guardians.
No one saw him enter. But everyone saw him leave.
With two figures wrapped in wolf skins—one-year-old Kael and two-year-old Lira—he pierced the chaos like a shadow. Blood trickled from his arm, but his steps did not falter.
Behind him, Vaelmoor burned.
And in the highest towers, the bodies of Riven and Elira hung from black silk ropes—not as trophies, but as a warning.
Thus ends the Silver Wolf.
The snow began to fall harder, as if the sky were weeping ashes.
Valeris did not look back.
He knew that if he looked, he would hear the howl.
And if he heard the howl… perhaps he wouldn't have the courage to flee.
But the children…
The children needed to survive.
Because a promise made in blood is never erased.
And a wolf, even in silence, always returns.