The night bit like teeth against the flesh—sharper than usual, far colder than Lovaa could stomach.

The air itself trembled, the wind clawing at tents and bones, howling across the ruined landscape like an animal mourning its own death. But to Lovaa, it was more than weather. It was a voice—his voice. Twisting through the cold, it slithered into her ears, whispering like it had before. A warning. A call. A memory scraped raw.

She should have stayed inside, coiled within the warmth of her sanctuary, where the scent of burnt herbs and the low growls of her pets kept her grounded. The tent was dimly lit, alive with ritual fire and twitching shadows. Her pets—those broken, stitched-together wolves—usually curled at her feet like hellhounds at the gates of a dream. But tonight, something clawed at the edge of her mind.

She rose.

Without a word, she draped herself in layers of cloth and tightened the leather bindings that held her limbs steady. A low whistle escaped her blackened lips, dry and sharp. Instantly, the wolves stirred from the corners of the tent, their bodies jerking with unnatural grace. Spines arched. Jaws snapped. Flesh peeled back around metal-threaded scars as they lumbered forward, obeying without hesitation.

"Lead," she commanded softly.

One of the larger beasts—its lower jaw replaced with rusted iron and tendon—pushed ahead into the snow-drenched dark, eyes glowing dimly with infected heat. Lovaa followed, clutching a lantern that spat warmth like a dying heart. The snow hissed underfoot, melting into slush where her presence passed.

At the camp’s edge, where the perimeter wards hissed and flickered with faint crimson glow, she found them.

"Fleshborn," Lovaa rasped, her voice smooth as oil on water. Her head tilted, blindfolded eyes gazing at nothing—yet seeing everything. "What are you doing here?"

It was too late, too dangerous, and far too exposed for any child of the Sarks to wander. Yet Lovaa didn't raise her voice. Not yet.