Four shapes emerged through the darkness, the sound of claws crunching gravel in the moonlit silence.

  Kael cursed himself internally. He’d gotten too comfortable, lulled by the warmth of fire and the softness of shared memory. Now—caught with light-blind eyes and no clear read on the threat—he was slower to reach for his spear.

  But Kavari's hand clamped down on his thigh, hard enough to bruise. It wasn’t panic—it was control. A warning.

  Her posture had shifted. Eyes narrowed, face expressionless, her body still and coiled like a drawn bow. Kael had seen Kavari focused before. This was different. Her expression was carved from stone—cold and sharpened by something older than instinct.

  Four shadows moved forward, one smaller, trailing slightly behind. One stepped up to the edge of the hollow where they had made camp, boots scraping loose shale.

  The voice that came was low and rough, steeped in the guttural cadence of the Pride lands.

  “Kavari of the Duskrock Pride? Covering yourself with a blanket from the cold? Ash Claw kids don’t even do that.”

  He laughed—short and sharp. The other two joined him, their mirth echoing off the cliff face like the rattle of bones.

  The second figure stepped into view—older, broader, his shoulders crisscrossed with deep, ritual scars. Twin bone swords rested on his back, their surfaces etched with crude blood runes. He radiated menace without needing to say a word.

  The third figure hung back, younger and leaner, a single scar wrapping his forearm like a cuff. He held a bone-forged spear decorated with the same blood glyphs—brandishing it forward with exaggerated pride.

  Kael noted the posturing and the fresh scar. Trying to prove himself. He’s new.

  The last shadow, a smaller whelp, barely more than a boy, clutched a simple wooden spear capped with an obsidian point. A clawling. Still in training.

  All of them had blackened fingers—stained with ash.

  Ah. Kael got it now. Ash Claws. Very literal.

  Kavari rose slowly, her body unfolding with deliberate grace. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. As she stood, the travel blanket slipped from her shoulders like a shed skin.

  Kael caught it and instinctively folded it, setting it atop her pack.

  The younger Ash Claw stepped forward, pointing his blood-marked spear directly at Kael, smirking with juvenile bravado. Runt stirred at the movement, blinking herself awake—then sharpening instantly as her eyes locked on the newcomers.

  The young warrior sneered.

  “This the human and the runt the High Shaman wants?” He scoffed. “Pathetic. Stopping to sleep? You could’ve been at the camp by now. Good thing actual warriors are here to save this human and runt.”

  The tension snapped into full clarity.

  Kael didn’t move for his weapon. Not yet.

  But the quiet smile on his lips was cold enough to frost steel.

  Runt stood tall, claws sliding free with a crisp shick, her green eyes narrowing like a hunting cat’s. The young warrior sneered, all bravado and zero caution, and jabbed his bone-tipped spear directly at her chest.

  She didn’t move.

  She didn’t have to.

  Kavari exploded from her position in a blur of motion, blackened plate clanking once before she slammed into the older battle born with the twin swords. Her hand snapped out, grabbed his wrist, and twisted—a loud pop-crunch filled the air as his shoulder dislocated with a sickening grind.

  At the exact same moment, Kael stepped forward like a ghost, driving his shoulder into the cocky youth’s chest. Whumph. The air left the young warrior’s lungs with a strangled wheeze as Kael snatched the spear clean from his grip and spun it casually into a relaxed, almost lazy combat stance—tip low, elbow loose, back pointed skyward.

  The young warrior stumbled back, blinking, now painfully aware of just how little control he actually had.

  The older beast kin leaned against the cliff wall and laughed, slapping his knee with his functional arm like this was the best thing he’d seen all month. Then, grunting, he turned and smashed his shoulder against the rock wall with a wet crunch—popping it back into place like it was a morning stretch.

  “I told you, Drekhar,” he said between snorts. “Stop pointing your damn spear at everything that breathes.”

  Kael, unbothered, stepped up to Drekhar with a neutral smile and extended the spear back toward him like a teacher handing a wooden sword to a trainee. Drekhar’s face burned crimson with equal parts shame and boiling frustration.

  But before the boy could react, Kael stepped inside the spear’s reach with fluid confidence and raised two fingers to his lips.

  “I see you, Senn’Grah,” he said, his voice low but steady.

  Instinct kicked in before pride could stop it. Drekhar stammered the reply: “I see you. You honor me.”

  Behind him, Kavari snorted, and the older warrior let out another dry chuckle.

  Kavari switched to common, holding up a finger and pointing at herself. “I’m a Senn’Grah.” She jerked her chin toward the older beast kin. “That’s a Senn’Grah.”

  Then she pointed at Drekhar, who was still recovering his pride. “And that? That’s just a Senn. A warrior. Not a veteran.”

  Runt leaned toward Kael and stage-whispered, “What’s the word for dumbass in their dialect?”

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  Kael didn’t miss a beat. “Drekhar.”

  The older warrior wheezed out another laugh and clapped Drekhar on the back—just a bit too hard.

  With introductions made, Kael learned the twin-sword battle born was named Grask—scarred, broad-shouldered, and grinning like a man born in battle. He offered a nod of respect before stating simply, “Ash Claws will cover the perimeter while you break camp. Things are… moving. This close to Vey’shak, we don’t take chances.”

  Kael returned the nod, glancing at Kavari as he tightened the straps on his travel pack. She didn’t look at him at first. Instead, she watched the cliffs, her ears twitching once before she spoke low enough for only him to hear.

  “The Veil Weakens.”

  She paused, then added, softer still.

  “Moon’s Hunger.”

  Beastkin had many words for Fadefall, and none of them were comforting.

  Camp broke down quickly. Packs were fastened, embers snuffed, trails disguised. Grask and his warriors moved like smoke, efficient and silent. No banter. No orders. Just instinct and trust.

  Under the pale glow of the twin moons—Lunara and Velmira—they began their ascent toward the Ash Claws’ mountain camp. A jagged path of narrow ridges, cold air, and deep shadows that clung to every outcropping like ghosts.

  No one spoke.

  They moved quickly.

  Kavari brushed her fingers lightly against Kael’s hand as they approached. A silent signal. A grounding gesture. His gaze flicked sideways—caught it. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to.

  Damn, Kael thought. He hadn’t noticed the camp.

  City living had dulled him. If he hadn’t been staring straight at it, he would’ve missed it entirely.

  No campfire. No idle voices. Just shadows that moved like they’d grown from the mountain itself. Silent forms shifted in the dark—limbs of muscle and purpose. Shapes crouched in stillness. Others passed in near-perfect silence. The scent of smoke and leather barely clung to the air. It was all precision. Discipline.

  The camp had been built into the mountainside. Seamless. Intentional.

  Tents weren’t fabric—they were camouflage. Hide and bone. Smoke-stained to match the rock. They extended back into the stone as if they’d been carved from the cliffs themselves. Tiered and portable, but fortified in a way Kael had never seen.

  His eyes roved over the layout—mapping, cataloging, evaluating.

  At the center. a circular clearing, ringed in stone.

  The Heart.

  The place where the Pride speaks as one.

  A broad, fire-scarred pit dominated the middle—meant for rituals, war councils, and the binding of oaths. Around it, upright slabs etched with victory runes and names of the fallen. A silent chorus of the dead. Kael had seen such stones before, but never so many. The air practically hummed with memory.

  Just beyond the ring, a new structure—larger, denser, heavy with presence.

  The High Shaman’s Pavilion.

  Kael slowed instinctively, muscles tensing beneath his coat.

  The tent was reinforced with carved bone and thick hides, adorned with black feathers and etched glyph-stones. Wind charms made from vertebrae and iron sang in the cold air. Warding totems—at least four—ringed its perimeter, buzzing faintly against his skin.

  Thats new.

  His gaze swept wider.

  Warfang Row.

  Medium-sized tents formed a broken crescent around the Heart—some heavily scratched from practice bouts, others with bone racks outside for weapons or trophies. He spotted several sparring rings, one still wet with blood and dust. Movement flickered—battle born warriors circling each other with slow, deliberate steps. Even at night, especially at night, they fought.

  Younger shapes moved beyond that.

  Clawling Quarters. Smaller tents. Lower. Protected.

  A cluster of lean-tos tucked close to the cliffs, guarded on three sides by terrain and on the fourth by a narrow choke lined with claw totems. Children. Their silhouettes flitted through the dark, small and fast.

  Kael's eyes hardened as they continued deeper into the camp.

  The outer ring was pure functionality: butchering slabs, tanning racks, alchemical workstations, stacked crates and barrels organized in tight rows. Timber and bone watchtowers stood like skeletal guardians on the heights. Elevated platforms served as lookout points. He counted two scouts already—watching them, bows strung.

  At the edge of it all, just barely visible in the pale starlight, were claw barriers—mobile, spiked constructs arranged in sweeping arcs to mimic raking strikes across the ground. Defensive. Psychological.

  This wasn’t a seasonal camp.

  This was a Pride war band.

  Kael’s chest tightened. He'd seen this before. Too many times. From the inside—and from the opposite ridge. From a trench. From a dying forward outpost with blood on the snow and air that burned with spellfire.

  This was how a battle born clan moved through hostile territory. No wasted motion. No comfort. All teeth.

  They weren’t just prepared to fight.

  They expected to.

  Kael’s mind mapped the layout like a tactician, marking possible vulnerabilities. Entry points. Chokepoints. Elevation lines. He couldn’t help it. The old habit took over. Fadefall was coming—and here they were, a full war band a day and a half from Brassreach.

  “Unheard of,” he muttered to himself.

  Kavari glanced at him, then ahead again.

  No torchlight. No ceremony.

  Only tension thick as mountain stone and silence that felt like a held breath waiting to break.

  Grask led them without a word, his gait quick and deliberate, his bone swords bouncing lightly with each step. No sound from the blades. They cut a path through the camp with ease. No one challenged them. Everyone saw who led them—and what it meant.

  The High Shaman’s Pavilion loomed ahead like a sleeping beast nestled in the cliffs. Its broad entrance was marked with bone charms, feathers, and cloth dyed in ash-gray and crimson. It exuded authority and something older, heavier—like the air just before a storm.

  Grask pulled back the first hide flap, waving them inside with a flick of his hand. Kael ducked slightly, stepping in after Kavari and Runt. Grask followed last, letting the flap drop closed behind them. He ran his hands along the seams with care, smoothing it shut.

  Only once it was perfectly sealed did he open the second layer—thicker, darker, etched with runes that shimmered faintly.

  They stepped into warmth and sound.

  The interior hit them like stepping into another world. Heat rolled over them—dry and herbal, tinged with the scent of incense and something coppery. Firelight danced along carved bones and hanging glyphs, casting jagged shadows that moved like silent dancers along the hide walls.

  The space was packed.

  Battle born filled the pavilion—seated on hides and furs, some on their haunches, others leaning against ribs of bone lashed into the tent’s interior. Massive shapes. Pridefangs leaned in near the entrance or resting across their knees.

  And in the center, seated on a raised platform of stone and hide, was her.

  A towering, scarred beast kin woman clad in dark red shaman’s robes, hair woven with talismans and strips of weathered cloth. Scars crossed her arms, her face, and one half of her exposed ribcage—bare beneath layered beads and bone armor. Her voice filled the space, deep and rolling as she spun a tale that had the gathered warriors locked in attention.

  Until she noticed them.

  The story halted mid-sentence. Silence took the room like a blade.

  One by one, heads turned.

  Dozens of eyes.

  Yellow, gold, and ember-red—all turned to them.

  Kael instinctively shifted his stance, his spear hand twitching toward the small of his back. He knew this posture. This stillness. He’d seen it on front lines before an ambush or Charge.

  He was already running threat profiles in his head when the High Shaman stood.

  Her voice boomed like a challenge to the mountain itself:

  “Kavari of the Duskrock Pride—”

  She spread her arms wide.

  “The Pride welcomes you home.”

  The room erupted.

  Beast kin roared their approval, slamming fists to chests or stomping the ground in rhythmic thuds. Several rose and surged forward to greet her, surrounding Kavari with backslaps, jostling hands, and the fierce joy of warriors reunited. A bone-carved mug was pressed into her palm, froth spilling over the side as someone shouted something in the old tongue.

  Kavari laughed, her shoulders relaxing for the first time in days as she let them tug her deeper into the circle.

  Kael… was completely ignored.

  So was Runt.

  They stood just off to the side of the entrance, like forgotten travelers at someone else’s family feast. Runt looked up at Kael, slightly confused, then narrowed her eyes and tucked herself beside him, instinctively mirroring his quiet readiness.

  So, Kael mused, watching Kavari disappear into the embrace of her kin, this is what home looks like for her.

  He stayed silent, watching.

  Listening.

  Measuring.

  Because something told him their real welcome had yet to begin.