The council fire was burning low when Harrag finished speaking about the Stone Crows. Snow had fallen again that morning, dusting the upper rocks and clinging to the branches of the pines above the camp. The hunters had returned with almost nothing. Even the oldest warriors could feel the shift in the mountains.
Food would not last forever.
When the chief asked who would carry the message west, a few of the older men exchanged glances. The path to the Stone Crows' territory was not long, but it was narrow, steep, and sometimes watched by enemies.
Torren stepped forward anyway.
"I will go."
Several heads turned.
One of the older warriors snorted softly.
"He is still a boy."
Torren did not look away.
Harrag watched his son for a moment. The firelight reflected faintly in Torren's pale red eyes. Snow dust clung to the shoulders of his fur cloak.
"He knows the cliffs," Harrag said.
The chief considered that.
"And the crows know Harrag."
That mattered.
The chief nodded slowly.
"You go."
He then pointed to a tall, scarred warrior sitting near the edge of the circle.
"Rokkar goes with you."
Rokkar grunted but did not object. He was a heavy man with thick arms and a broken nose that had healed crooked years ago. Few people spoke much to Rokkar. He was known for fighting well and speaking little.
Torren felt a surge of quiet excitement.
This would be his first time traveling beyond Painted Dogs territory without a raid.
They left before sunrise the next morning.
The mountains were silent except for the wind scraping across the cliffs. Snow still clung to the higher ridges, but the deeper valleys remained dark and bare.
Rokkar walked ahead, moving carefully along the narrow trail that cut across the rock face.
"Watch your step," he said once.
Torren nodded.
They climbed for hours.
The path wound through broken stone, frozen streams, and narrow ledges where a wrong step would send a man tumbling hundreds of feet down the mountainside.
Torren did not complain.
At one point Rokkar glanced back at him.
"You climb well."
"My father taught me."
Rokkar grunted.
"That he did."
They reached the high pass by midday.
From there the mountains sloped west toward the territory where the Stone Crows roamed.
Torren stopped for a moment and looked down into the wide valley below.
Smoke rose from several fires.
Stone Crows.
Rokkar followed his gaze.
"Crows are home."
Torren nodded.
He felt the familiar stirring inside his mind.
The eagle.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Moments later the wind exploded around him.
Through the eagle's eyes the valley spread wide beneath the sky. The Stone Crows camp lay in a rocky basin surrounded by cliffs. Fires burned between scattered shelters made from hides and branches. Warriors moved through the camp like dark shapes against the snow-dusted ground.
Torren guided the eagle lower.
Then he released the connection and opened his eyes.
"They are there."
Rokkar smirked slightly.
"I know."
They approached the camp openly.
Two Stone Crow warriors spotted them first.
One raised a spear.
"Halt!"
Rokkar lifted both hands slightly.
"Painted Dogs."
The warriors lowered their weapons but did not look friendly.
Then one of them noticed Torren.
He stared.
"Pale boy."
Another warrior stepped closer.
"Ghost child."
Torren had heard both before.
He ignored them.
Rokkar spoke calmly.
"We come with words from the Painted Dogs."
The guards exchanged glances.
One of them finally gestured toward the center of the camp.
"Then speak to the chief."
The Stone Crows camp was rougher than the Painted Dogs'.
The shelters were scattered across the rocky basin with little order. Bones and feathers hung from branches above the fires. Black crow feathers were tied to spears and staffs as symbols of the clan.
The warriors themselves looked harsher too.
Several stared openly at Torren as he walked through the camp.
"Look at his eyes."
"Red like blood."
"Curse child."
Torren kept walking.
At the center of the camp stood a larger fire surrounded by several warriors.
A tall man stood beside it.
The Stone Crows chief.
He was broad and thick-necked, with dark hair tied behind his head and scars across both arms. When Rokkar approached, the chief smiled slightly.
"Painted Dogs."
Rokkar nodded.
"Chief."
The man's eyes moved to Torren.
"You bring a boy?"
Torren stepped forward before Rokkar could answer.
"I am Torren."
The chief studied him.
"Harrag's son?"
"Yes."
That seemed to change something.
The chief nodded slowly.
"Harrag fights well."
Before the conversation could continue, another voice spoke nearby.
"He also sends children to talk."
Torren turned.
A young man stood a few steps away, leaning casually on a spear. He looked about seventeen, perhaps eighteen, with dark hair and a confident expression.
The chief gestured toward him.
"My son."
The young warrior smirked slightly.
"You climb all this way to speak?"
Torren met his eyes.
"Yes."
The young man tilted his head.
"I thought Painted Dogs only knew how to raid."
Torren shrugged.
"We do both."
The chief chuckled quietly.
Before the tension could grow, another figure stepped closer.
A girl.
She looked younger than the warrior—perhaps fourteen. Her dark hair was tied behind her head with strips of leather. Unlike the others, she did not look hostile.
She looked curious.
Her eyes fixed on Torren's face.
On his skin.
On his eyes.
"You really are pale."
Torren blinked.
"Yes."
She stepped closer, studying him.
"They call you Pale Boy."
Torren shrugged.
"They call me Torren."
The girl considered that.
"I am Lysa."
The young warrior rolled his eyes slightly.
"My sister."
Lysa ignored him.
Her attention remained on Torren.
"Your eyes are strange."
"So they say."
She seemed satisfied with that answer.
The Stone Crows chief finally lifted his hand.
"Enough."
Everyone quieted.
He looked back at Torren.
"Speak."
Torren took a step closer to the fire.
"The snow came early."
Several warriors nodded.
They had seen it too.
"The goats have not moved," Torren continued.
"Our traps bring nothing."
The chief listened carefully.
Torren pointed toward the mountains behind them.
"Winter comes."
Silence followed.
Then Torren finished the message.
"The valleys still have food."
Now several warriors exchanged glances.
Everyone understood the meaning.
The chief crossed his arms.
"And Painted Dogs?"
Torren held his gaze.
"Painted Dogs will go down."
The young warrior beside the chief smiled slightly.
"A raid."
Torren shook his head.
"More than a raid."
The chief's expression sharpened.
"You want war."
Torren answered calmly.
"We want food."
For a long moment no one spoke.
Then the chief looked around the fire at his warriors.
"The mountains are hungry."
Several nodded.
Finally he looked back at Torren.
"And Harrag sends you to say this?"
"Yes."
The chief smiled slowly.
"Then the crows fly with the dogs."
Around the fire, several warriors began to grin.
Later that evening the camp settled into quieter rhythms.
The alliance had been made.
Plans would follow in the coming days.
Torren sat near the edge of the camp watching the firelight flicker across the rocks.
Footsteps approached.
He did not look up.
Lysa sat beside him.
"You are strange."
Torren sighed.
"I hear that often."
She studied his face again.
"Your eyes… do they see differently?"
"No."
She looked slightly disappointed.
"That would have been useful."
Torren glanced toward the cliffs above the camp.
"Maybe."
Lysa followed his gaze.
The mountains stretched endlessly into the darkness.
"Winter will be bad," she said quietly.
Torren nodded.
"Yes."
For a moment neither of them spoke.
Then she added something unexpected.
"But it will be worse for the Andals."
Torren looked at her.
She smiled faintly.
"Because now the crows fly with the dogs."
And somewhere high above the camp, a golden eagle circled silently in the darkening sky.