After receiving a cryptic vision from Nivara, Yrsa leaves the warmth of her hall and the deathbed of her father behind. Guided by the mark burned into her hand and the whispers of a goddess she doesn’t fully trust, she rides toward the forgotten forest of Frostholt — a place where no sane warrior treads. There, the Garmblood werewolf pack rules. The woods are cursed, lightless, and so quiet they feel like a place abandoned by time itself. Nivara told her only one dwells safely there: “the hidden son of god-flesh — forgotten, but not without purpose.” And so, on the third night, alone and on foot, she enters the forest.

Snow fell heavy in the black forest, muffling every step, every breath. Yrsa moved like a ghost between twisted trees, her sword drawn and frost biting her cheeks.

The mark Nivara branded on her palm pulsed faintly under her glove — tugging her forward, deeper into cursed lands no sane warrior dared enter. A growl broke the silence. Then another. Red eyes blinked between trunks. Shadows shifted. She was surrounded. The Garmblood Pack.

One beast lunged — massive, bone-white, its maw stained red. Yrsa turned, drove her blade through its ribs with a roar. Blood steamed in the snow. Another snapped at her side — she spun, slicing it across the throat.... Two dead.... A third tackled her from behind, claws raking her shoulder. She dropped to one knee, slashing upward, carving through its jaw.... Three down....

But her breath was ragged now, her muscles slow. Blood soaked into her furs. Her blade wavered. The rest circled, snarling, closer now. She backed into a tree, heart pounding, vision narrowing. Her grip slipped slightly on the hilt. She raised it again with what little strength she had. She would not scream. She would not beg. But she was alone.

And then — a voice, deep and cold, echoed through the trees: "Enough." The wolves froze. Not in fear — in recognition.