The Stone Crows camp did not sleep early.
Night had settled fully over the basin, yet the fires still burned bright between the shelters of hide and wood. Warriors sat in loose circles around them, drinking sour goat milk, sharpening blades, or telling stories from past raids. The smell of smoke, leather, and roasting meat drifted through the cold air.
Torren sat near one of the outer fires, watching.
Stone Crows were louder than Painted Dogs. Their warriors argued more openly, laughed harder, and insulted each other without hesitation. Even their armor looked different—more bones tied to leather straps, more black feathers hanging from belts and spear shafts.
The girl—Lysa—sat on a stone nearby, occasionally glancing toward him as if she still could not decide whether he was strange or interesting.
Across the camp, the chief of the Stone Crows spoke quietly with several of his warriors.
Torren knew he had not finished his task yet.
He stood.
The firelight followed him as he walked across the camp.
Several warriors watched the pale boy pass between the fires.
One muttered quietly.
"Ghost child walks like he owns the mountains."
Another answered with a shrug.
"He carries Harrag's blood."
Torren ignored them and approached the chief.
The Stone Crows leader stood beside the largest fire in the camp, speaking with his son and two older warriors. When Torren stepped into the circle of light, the chief noticed him immediately.
"You again," he said.
Torren nodded.
"There is more to say."
The chief studied him for a moment.
"Then speak."
The other warriors shifted slightly, giving Torren space near the fire.
Torren crouched beside a flat stone and used a small stick to draw lines in the dirt.
"These are the mountains," he said.
The chief and the others leaned slightly closer.
Torren traced a long crooked line.
"This ridge leads east."
He tapped another point farther down.
"This pass drops toward the valleys."
One of the older warriors squinted at the drawing.
"That path is narrow."
Torren nodded.
"Two men wide."
The chief crossed his arms.
"Why bring us this?"
Torren looked up.
"If Painted Dogs and Stone Crows go down separately, the Andals will see us."
The chief said nothing.
Torren continued.
"They watch the main paths. They watch the High Road. But this pass…" He tapped the dirt again. "…they do not watch it."
The chief's son crouched beside the drawing now.
"You use it for raids?"
Torren nodded.
"Sometimes."
The young warrior grinned.
"Good path then."
The chief finally spoke.
"How many warriors will Harrag bring?"
Torren did not hesitate.
"Most warriors in the clan."
The fire cracked loudly between them.
Several of the Stone Crows exchanged glances.
That was a large number.
The chief looked thoughtful now.
"And you want Stone Crows to come as well."
"Yes."
The chief tilted his head slightly.
"And the target?"
Torren answered without looking away.
"The villages."
One of the older warriors chuckled.
"Always the villages."
Torren shook his head.
"Not only villages."
He drew another small shape in the dirt.
"Storage barns."
He tapped the mark.
"Grain."
Now the warriors leaned in closer.
Winter was already tightening its grip on the mountains. Everyone in the camp understood what grain meant.
Food.
Survival.
The chief looked at the drawing for a long moment.
"How many days?"
Torren considered the distance.
"Three."
The chief looked up.
"Three days to reach the pass?"
Torren nodded.
"Yes."
The chief's son glanced toward the dark mountains surrounding them.
"We would need to move fast."
Torren shrugged.
"Or winter will move faster."
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the chief laughed softly.
"You speak like a chief's son."
Torren answered calmly.
"I speak like someone who wants to survive winter."
The chief stared at him for another few seconds.
Then he nodded slowly.
"Three days."
He pointed toward the mountains.
"We meet here."
Torren looked at the drawing.
That location was good. The ridge there overlooked the pass and had enough space for two warbands to gather without being easily seen from the valleys below.
He nodded.
"Three days."
The chief extended a hand.
Torren hesitated only a moment before gripping it.
The pact was sealed.
Later that night, the fires burned lower.
Most of the camp had settled down. A few warriors still drank near the central fire, but many had already crawled into their shelters.
Torren sat near the edge of the basin, staring toward the mountains.
He felt the familiar presence inside his mind.
The voice.
You are thinking.
Torren answered silently.
Yes.
About the raid.
Torren watched the wind push small clouds of snow across the rocks.
About winter.
The voice did not reply immediately.
Winter will kill more than swords if food is not taken.
Torren knew that.
He had seen hunger before.
Not true winter hunger.
But enough.
He leaned back against a cold rock and looked up at the sky.
Stars stretched endlessly above the mountains.
After a moment he spoke again inside his mind.
Did I do well?
The answer came calmly.
You did what a leader does.
Torren frowned slightly.
I am not a leader.
Not yet.
Torren did not respond.
Instead he closed his eyes.
A moment later the wind exploded around him.
The golden eagle soared high above the Stone Crows camp.
Through its eyes the world stretched wide and sharp.
The basin lay below like a dark scar between the mountains. Fires glowed faintly like embers scattered across black stone.
The eagle climbed higher.
The wind carried it east.
Below, the mountains rolled endlessly across the land like frozen waves.
Torren guided the bird toward the ridges he had drawn earlier in the dirt.
The pass appeared soon after.
Even from the sky it looked narrow—a thin crack between two towering walls of rock.
Beyond it lay the valleys.
The eagle circled once.
Far below, faint shapes moved.
A village.
Small houses clustered together beside a frozen stream.
Smoke rose from several chimneys.
Barns stood nearby.
Torren watched carefully.
Livestock.
Grain stores.
Food.
He pulled the eagle higher again.
Then he released the connection.
Torren opened his eyes.
The Stone Crows camp was quiet now.
Footsteps approached.
He turned his head.
Lysa.
She sat down beside him without asking.
"You were staring at the sky again."
Torren shrugged.
"I like the mountains."
She followed his gaze upward.
"Sometimes I think the mountains watch us."
Torren smiled faintly.
"Maybe they do."
She studied him for a moment.
"You are strange."
"So I hear."
Lysa nudged a small stone with her boot.
"My brother thinks you are dangerous."
Torren looked at her.
"And you?"
She considered the question.
"I think you are interesting."
Torren laughed quietly.
That answer surprised him.
Lysa glanced toward the fires behind them.
"Will Painted Dogs really bring many warriors?"
"Yes."
"And the crows?"
"Yes."
She nodded slowly.
"Then the valleys will burn."
Torren did not answer.
After a moment she stood.
"You should sleep."
Torren remained seated.
"I will."
She walked back toward the camp.
Torren stayed where he was.
The wind carried the cold scent of snow across the basin.
Winter was coming.
And in three days, the mountain clans would descend from the heights like wolves.
High above the camp, the golden eagle circled silently in the dark sky.