Chapter 132: Heroes Get Songs
As the afternoon light shifted, they reached the nursery wing. Lila paused at the door, listening to the sounds of children playing.
A little girl with bright eyes looked up and grinned. "Queen Lila! Tell us the story about the three kings again!"
She smiled despite herself. "Another time, little one. Today you get to make your own stories."
Magnus watched the exchange with quiet interest. When they moved on he said, "You carry them too. The young ones."
"Every single one," she answered. The weight pressed, but so did the warmth. This was hers. The good and the heavy.
The day stretched long. More decisions, more conversations, more small moments that stitched the pack together. By evening, when the fires burned low and wolves sang in the distance, Lila stood once more on the wall. Magnus had gone to see to his men, promising to ride with the joint patrol at dawn.
She breathed the cold air and looked east. The silence waited there, patient and dark. Whatever it was, she would meet it with Frostfang at her back — the people, the laughter, the stubborn life that refused to break.
For now, that was enough.
She turned back toward the hall, shoulders straight, mind already turning to tomorrow’s reports. The crown sat heavy. But the heart of the keep beat strong beneath it, and she would keep it beating no matter the cost.
***************
Thorne Voss crested the ridge with the wind whipping snow into his face and a grin splitting his mouth.
Moonblight stretched below — jagged, unforgiving country where the trees grew twisted and the rivers ran black with melt. His small team rode behind him, horses blowing hard after the hard push from Frostfang.
Tuva Lie rode at his left flank, her cloak pulled tight, eyes sharp on the terrain. She had joined them three days back as Stormborn’s mapmaker and had already proven she could keep pace without complaint.
"Looks clear," Thorne called, reining in. The words tasted like a challenge. Clear never lasted long out here.
One of the warriors, a broad-shouldered man named Jakob Pedersen, pulled up beside him.
Jakob’s face carried the kind of scar that came from arguing with the wrong bear. "You said that last ridge too, then we nearly rode into a rockslide. Your luck’s going to run dry one of these days."
Thorne laughed, the sound loud against the quiet hills. "Luck’s what you make when the land tries to kill you. Besides, you love it. Admit it."
Jakob grunted but didn’t deny it. The man lived for the edge, same as Thorne. Sometimes they butted heads like rams in rut, other times they fought back-to-back like brothers. Today felt like the former.
Tuva shook her head, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "You two bicker like old married wolves. Focus. The eastern silence has teeth. We’re not here to play heroes."
Thorne shot her a look. She had a way of cutting through his momentum without raising her voice. It irritated him and intrigued him in equal measure. "Heroes get songs written about them. Careful ones get forgotten. Come on."
He kicked his horse forward before anyone could argue. The descent was steep, hooves slipping on loose shale. His blood sang with it — the risk, the unknown, the sharp bite of cold air in his lungs.
This was where he belonged, not trapped behind Frostfang’s walls listening to elders debate grain stores. Lila could have the councils. He’d take the wild edges where things actually happened.
They reached the valley floor without incident. The abandoned farmstead sat like a wound in the landscape — doors hanging open, a broken loom visible through one window, snow drifting across the threshold. No blood. No bodies. Just absence.
Thorne dismounted first, hand resting on the hilt of his axe. "Spread out. Check the buildings. Tuva, with me on the barn. Jakob, take the house."
Jakob muttered something about charging in blind but moved to obey. Tuva fell in beside Thorne, her steps quiet. "You always lead with the axe first?"
"Works until it doesn’t," he replied, pushing the barn door open with his shoulder. The interior smelled of old hay and something sharper — fear, maybe. Tools lay scattered. A child’s toy horse carved from pine sat on a workbench, half-finished. The sight twisted something in his chest. Families had lived here. Laughed here. Now it was just wood and silence.
Tuva crouched by a set of tracks near the back wall. "Fresh. Human, but moving wrong. Like they were running from something they couldn’t see."
Thorne knelt beside her. The prints were erratic, heels digging deep then scuffing sideways. His instincts screamed to follow them now, hard and fast. "We track it. Whatever took them might still be close."
"Thorne." Tuva’s voice held warning. "We should regroup. Lila’s orders were clear — observe and report, not chase ghosts alone."
He stood, axe already in hand. The weight felt right. "Lila’s not here. I am. And those people might still be alive. You coming or staying?"
She cursed under her breath but drew her own blade. "You’re going to get us killed one day."
"Today’s not that day." He flashed her a grin that usually got him out of trouble with his sisters. It earned him an eye roll instead.
They followed the tracks into the treeline. Jakob joined them after a quick search of the house, muttering about Thorne’s bull-headed nature the entire way.
The forest closed around them, branches heavy with snow. Every snap of a twig sounded too loud. Thorne’s blood thrummed with the hunt. This was living — not endless meetings about alliances and grain.
The tracks ended at a small clearing. What waited there turned his stomach.
Three figures knelt in the snow, backs to them, heads bowed. They wore the simple clothes of farmers but their skin had gone gray, veins dark beneath like ink spilled under frost. One of them twitched, a low sound escaping that wasn’t quite human.
"Easy," Thorne whispered, axe raised. "We’re not here to—"
The nearest figure whipped around. Its eyes were black pits. It lunged with impossible speed.
Thorne met it head-on, axe swinging in a brutal arc. The blade bit deep into the thing’s shoulder. Black ichor sprayed across the snow. The creature screamed, a sound that scraped the inside of his skull.
Jakob charged the second one, sword flashing. Tuva moved like water, blade dancing as she circled the third.
The fight turned ugly fast. These weren’t wolves or bandits. They moved wrong, joints bending in directions that made bone crack audibly.
Thorne took a hit to his ribs that drove the breath from him but he answered with a roar, burying his axe in the creature’s chest. It collapsed, twitching, then stilled.
Jakob finished his with a grunt, wiping his blade. Tuva’s opponent lay pinned under her boot, still hissing until her knife ended it.
Silence rushed back in.
Thorne stood breathing hard, ribs aching, blood on his hands that wasn’t all his. "What the fuck were those?"
Tuva crouched by one of the bodies, expression grim. "Not natural. The eastern silence isn’t just absence. It’s changing people. We need to get this back to Lila."
Jakob clapped Thorne on the back, hard enough to jolt his injured ribs. "Charging in blind worked this time. Don’t let it go to your head, prince."
Thorne managed a laugh despite the pain. "Wouldn’t dream of it. Let’s burn the bodies and move. I don’t want to be here when more show up."
They worked quickly, piling dead wood and setting the pyre alight. Flames rose against the gray sky, carrying the stench of corrupted flesh.
Thorne watched the smoke climb and felt the familiar rush of having acted, of doing something when others might have waited. The flaw sat there, plain — he leaped and then dealt with the consequences. But consequences were for tomorrow. Today they had answers, however ugly.
The ride back toward their camp was quieter. Tuva rode closer than before, her shoulder brushing his occasionally when the trail narrowed. "You’re reckless," she said after a long stretch of silence. "But you don’t hesitate when it matters. That counts for something."
He glanced at her. Snow dusted her lashes. "High praise from the woman who called me bull-headed ten minutes ago."
She smiled, small and real. "Don’t let it go to your head."
Camp appeared as dusk settled — a handful of tents pitched in the lee of a rocky outcrop, fire burning low. The rest of the team had secured the perimeter and prepared a meal from what they carried.
Thorne dismounted with a wince, ribs protesting. Jakob noticed and tossed him a skin of strong drink without comment.
They ate around the fire — dried meat, hard bread, melted snow for tea. Stories started flowing as night deepened.
One warrior told of a hunt gone wrong last winter, complete with exaggerated gestures that had everyone laughing.
Jakob ribbed Thorne about the time he tried to wrestle a young boar and ended up in a mud pit. Thorne took it with good humor, adding his own embellishments until the group roared.