The boundary line of the Northern Pack was marked by a row of black iron pikes, their tips frozen into jagged icicles that pointed like accusing fingers toward the sky. Beyond them lay the Periphery—a desolate, wind-scoured wasteland of snow and gray rock where the outcasts were left to rot.
Nora Vance pulled her frayed woolen cloak tighter around her shoulders, the threadbare fabric doing little to stop the biting sub-zero wind. She adjusted the strap of her recurve bow, her knuckles raw and split from the cold. To the rest of the kingdom, she was a packless human stray, a useless mouth to feed in a world ruled by apex predators.
She knelt in the deep powder, her hyper-observant gaze scanning the snow. A fresh set of tracks caught her eye—the deep, heavy print of a winter snow-hare. Food.
Nora reached into her quiver, her fingers wrapping around the notched end of a hand-carved arrow. She drew the string back to her cheek, her breathing slowing until it was completely silent, her mind tuning out the howling gale. She didn't have a wolf's enhanced vision or super-strength, but she had an iron will and an unbroken focus.
Before she could release the arrow, a soft, familiar whistle cut through the wind behind her. The rabbit bolted, disappearing into a snowbank.
Nora didn’t curse. She let down her bow, a rare, genuine smile softening her frozen features as she turned around.
Princess Freya Frostborn stood just across the iron pikes, clad in a heavy velvet traveling cloak that contrasted sharply with Nora’s patched furs. Despite her royal status, Freya’s hazel eyes held no arrogance—only deep, anxious relief. She quickly scrambled over the boundary line, dropping a heavy leather satchel into Nora’s arms.
"You're late," Nora murmured, her voice raspy from the cold. She opened the satchel, finding dried meat, medicinal salves, and a thick, freshly knitted wool blanket. "And you shouldn't be crossing the line, Freya. If the border guards catch you smuggling supplies to a rogue, your father will lock you in the high tower."
"Let them try," Freya scoffed, though her smile didn't reach her eyes. She reached out, gently rubbing Nora’s freezing arms to warm them. "The guards are distracted anyway. The palace is in absolute chaos. My father..." Freya trailed off, her grip tightening on Nora's sleeves.
"What is it?" Nora asked, her instincts immediately flaring.
"The Alpha King is dead, Nora," Freya whispered, her voice trembling. "They found him in his study this morning. The Council says his heart failed, but I know better. He was strong. He was poisoned."
Nora’s breath hitched. The Alpha King’s death meant one terrifying thing for the entire kingdom: the fragile peace was over.
"If the King is dead, the throne is empty," Nora said, her mind racing. "The succession..."
"The exile gates are already opening," Freya said, a look of pure dread washing over her face. "The Council has summoned them back. My brothers are coming home."
Nora felt a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the winter weather. Even on the Periphery, everyone knew the tales of the twin princes. Prince Fenrir, the monstrous White Wolf, and Prince Silas, the vengeful Shadow Wolf. Years ago, their father had banished them to the demonic Dead Lands to prevent a bloody civil war for the crown. They were no longer just royalty; they were hardened killers who had survived the most brutal terrain in existence.
Suddenly, a deafening, mechanical siren wailed from the distant palace spires, its shrill cry echoing across the mountains. The sound was followed by the deep, terrifying howling of hundreds of wolves within the city walls.
Freya froze, her face turning pale as bone.
"They're here," Freya whispered, looking back toward the capital. "The twins have returned."
Nora stood beside her best friend, staring at the distant, looming shadow of the royal castle. Her left wrist suddenly throbbed with a strange, fleeting heat. She glanced down, pulling back her sleeve to look at the faint, crescent-moon-shaped birthmark on her skin. It had been cold to the touch her entire life, but now, it pulsed with a faint, undetectable rhythm, as if answering a call from the dark.
The monsters were back, and the frost was bleeding.
