Raven drifted between the waking world and oblivion, his body swaying with the motion of the sleigh.

  The world around him was a blur of white—endless snowfields stretching toward the horizon, broken only by the silhouettes of riders and their great wolves. Their breath curled into the frozen air like ghostly wisps, their fur dusted with frost.

  At times, he caught glimpses of Aira’s shadowy mount, its golden mane flickering in the storm like a phantom flame. Other times, he saw dire wolves padding silently through the snow, their riders barely moving, disciplined and watchful.

  And then, once again, darkness claimed him.

  The next time Raven surfaced, he found himself being wheeled through an immense gatehouse.

  The sheer scale of it was staggering—massive stone walls, reinforced with thick wooden beams, loomed high above. The gates themselves were enormous, constructed from slabs of dark timber bound with iron. They were not merely doors, but barriers meant to withstand sieges.

  High above, a wooden balcony overlooked the entrance, where figures in pale cloaks stood at attention. Their hands rested on crossbows, primed and ready.

  The floor beneath the sleigh shifted from packed snow to stone, and then to something smoother—polished wooden planks that dulled the sound of boots and paws alike.

  All around him, dire wolves were being led toward one of the inner gates.

  Despite their size and the thick fur cloaking their frames, many of them still shook themselves vigorously, scattering clumps of frost. A few stretched lazily, arching their backs before trotting toward their keepers, tails wagging.

  One particularly large wolf, its fur streaked with silver, bumped its rider’s side with its head, earning an exasperated chuckle and a few affectionate scratches behind the ears.

  Then, a piercing, unnatural cry split the air.

  A roar, yet not quite a roar—there was something avian in its pitch, something that sent a sharp jolt of awareness through Raven’s dazed mind.

  From the opened gate, two creatures burst forth.

  At first glance, they resembled massive wolves. But as they moved, Raven saw their wings—broad, feathered appendages tucked against their powerful bodies. Their heads, too, were wrong: elongated beaks like a crow’s, but with forward-facing eyes and tall, alert wolf ears.

  One was black as the abyss, its feathers swallowing the firelight. The other was pure white, its fur blending seamlessly with the frost clinging to the floor.

  They moved with startling grace, their claws clicking against the stone and wood.

  The white one let out a chuffing sound and padded toward the Bearwolf carcass. Its hooked beak nipped at the fur, testing the meat. Meanwhile, the black one turned toward Raven.

  It cocked its head.

  Raven felt its golden eyes scanning him, intelligent and curious.

  He turned toward Aira, searching her face for some reaction. But she only sighed, her expression shifting to something between exhaustion and exasperation.

  Then, her voice snapped through the air—sharp, commanding.

  The creatures stilled immediately. Then, as if chastened, they folded their wings and sat before her like obedient hounds.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Aira stepped forward and placed a hand on each of their heads, giving them a brief but firm rub. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she pulled a chunk of meat from the Bearwolf’s carcass and tossed one to each of them.

  They snapped up the offering eagerly, then turned and loped out of sight, disappearing into the stronghold’s depths.

  By now, a padded rolling stretcher had been wheeled in.

  As the knights lifted Raven carefully from the sleigh, his vision blurred again. The last thing he felt was the warm weight of thick furs being tucked around him, before sleep took him once more.

  When Raven awoke again, the world was soft and warm.

  Gone was the biting wind, the gnawing frost. Instead, a heavy silence filled the air, broken only by the distant murmur of voices.

  The ceiling above him was pale wood, its beams sturdy and unadorned. He lay beneath layers of thick furs and wool blankets, the weight pressing down on him like an anchor keeping him from drifting away. For the first time in what felt like forever, the cold wasn’t clawing at his skin. Instead, a different sensation crept through him—a deep, aching exhaustion, the kind that seeped into his very bones.

  He was in a long chamber with whitewashed walls and polished wooden floors, lined with neat rows of beds. Each had a thin curtain draped to the side, ready to be drawn for privacy. Near his bed, a crude yet functional heater hummed softly, its shape similar to the small heater he had once carried—but larger, bulkier, built for endurance rather than convenience. Pulsing with steady red light, it radiated warmth into the space around him.

  Figures moved quietly around him.

  Their clothing was simple yet dignified—long tunics in deep blue, layered beneath thick white aprons, the edges embroidered with a sigil Raven didn’t recognize. Some carried wooden trays, others held bowls of steaming water, stacks of folded linen, or glass jars filled with thick, murky salves. They spoke in that same foreign tongue, a lilting cadence of sharp consonants and softened vowels.

  Though their words were brisk, almost urgent, their movements remained calm, deliberate.

  A cold touch against his wrist—fingers pressing against his pulse.

  Raven flinched at the unexpected contact. A gentle hum followed, as if the healer had expected his reaction. Their touch was steady, patient, waiting for his heartbeat to settle before they moved on.

  He barely noticed as they carefully removed what little remained of his clothing, peeling away the tattered fabric with practiced efficiency. His old tunic and trousers, stiff with ice and torn from exposure, were discarded without hesitation. The sudden brush of air against his skin sent a shiver rolling through him—but the warmth of fresh, dry sheets replaced it almost immediately.

  Then came the pain.

  At first, it was a dull throb in his limbs, a distant reminder of the damage the cold had wrought. But as hands moved over him, as fingers gently pried at his frostbitten skin, the pain sharpened—stabbing, burning, waking him further from his haze.

  His hands—**frostbitten and raw, his fingertips darkened almost to black—**were inspected with calm precision.

  Then, the cool press of ointment.

  Raven barely had time to react before a jolt of fire surged through his skin. The salve burned, an agonizing mix of cold and heat, sinking into the damaged flesh. He hissed through clenched teeth, his body instinctively tensing.

  A warm hand touched his forehead.

  His breath hitched as he looked up.

  A woman stood beside him, her soft brown eyes lined with age, streaks of silver woven through her dark hair. Her touch was featherlight as she brushed a damp strand of hair from his face, her fingers lingering just long enough to reassure.

  She spoke. Low, steady, her voice carrying the weight of quiet certainty.

  Raven didn’t understand the words. But the tone?

  It was kind. Reassuring.

  His breath slowed. The pain didn’t fade, but it became… bearable.

  Somewhere nearby, he heard another voice—quieter, murmuring words that sounded like instructions. The salve was thick, pungent, carrying the bitter scent of herbs and something sharper—an acrid tang that stung his nose.

  One of them lifted a cup to his lips. Warm, herbal steam curled up from it, filling his nose with the scent of earth and dried flowers. A soft murmur encouraged him to drink.

  He tried. His arms wouldn’t obey him, his body too weak to lift itself. The healer’s hands were patient, tilting the cup just enough for him to take a small sip.

  Lukewarm liquid trickled down his throat—bitter at first, then slightly sweet, warming him from the inside. It was thin, watery, but he drank it greedily. His stomach clenched in response, unused to nourishment.

  He barely noticed as they continued their work—wrapping his hands and feet in soft bandages, layering warmth over his battered body. The world around him blurred again, exhaustion pulling at him.

  The last thing he saw was the healer stroking his forehead once more, her fingers lingering just enough to reassure him.

  Her voice, a distant murmur in a language he did not understand, was the last thing he heard before he slipped into sleep.

  This time, as darkness took him, it was without fear.