Chapter 70: The Name They Whisper

It took us six days to reach the edge of the basin.

We’d followed the rivers—ice-fed and winding—until the water turned dark and still, rimmed with frost and the bones of animals that hadn’t made it through the first real snap of winter. The trees had thinned, then thickened again, then vanished entirely as we came to the edge of a vast scar in the land. An old burn line, wide and blackened, the remnants of some fire that had scorched the ground clean long before I was born.

Talon slept against my chest, bundled in wool and wrapped tight to my body. His breaths were steady, shallow. He’d grown heavier in the last week, longer too. I swore I could already see his shoulders broadening, like Kael’s had when he came of age.

Beside me, Fenn walked with slow, limping steps. His injury had started to scab over, but he still bled when he pushed too hard. I kept waiting for him to fall back, to tell me he needed to rest. But he never did. Just kept going, grim and quiet.

We crested a ridge late in the day, and I saw it—a shanty sprawl of tents, timber huts, and smoke-blackened lean-tos slung like broken ribs across a shallow bowl of earth. A rogue trading post. One of the few ungoverned pockets left between wild land and shattered territories. It wasn’t marked on any map. It didn’t need to be.

The scent of wolves was strong. Piss. Blood. Cooked meat. Wet fur. No order. No rules.

I paused at the ridgeline.

Fenn came up beside me. “You sure?”

I adjusted the satchel, checked Talon’s wrap. “No.”

He gave a grim smile. “Then we’re probably ready.”

We descended the slope as the sun slipped behind the hills, casting long shadows over the encampment. There were no guards, no borders—just a wide clearing around a charred post nailed with bones. Deer. Maybe wolf. A warning: Keep your teeth to yourself, or lose them.

As we crossed into the ring of tents, I pulled my hood lower over my face and clutched Talon tighter.

The stares started instantly.

Wolves in ragged furs and old armor. Some scarred. Some branded. A few shifted just enough to flash teeth or claws. No greetings. No trust. Only curiosity. And threat.

Fenn led us straight into the heart of the post. He walked like he belonged, even if he didn’t. I followed in his shadow, counting every step, every sharp intake of breath around us. I didn’t know what they saw—an exile? A mother? A threat?

Maybe all three.

We stopped near a fire pit ringed by crates. Wolves haggled over dried meat, weapons, vials of strange-colored liquid. A trader with an eyepatch flashed gold teeth and offered us what he called “milkroot” for the pup. I declined with a stare that made him scowl.

Fenn turned his head slightly. “Keep walking. Don’t ask questions. Listen instead.”

So I did.

The traders talked in low voices, fast and clipped. Names passed between them—rumors more than truths. But one name came up more than once. Spoken carefully. Like a prayer. Or a warning.

Roran Vale.

I leaned toward Fenn. “You heard that?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is he?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept walking.

We passed a group of younger rogues seated near a crude board game carved from bone. One muttered something about “Iron Hollow.” Another said, “Vale’s got them lining up just to breathe near his shadow.”

We circled around to the edge of the post, where the trees grew thicker and a ruined watchtower loomed half-collapsed against the cliff wall. Fenn ducked inside first. I followed.

Inside was cold, but empty. Secluded. Safer.

He exhaled and pulled off his cloak. “We’ll stay here tonight. I’ll take first watch.”

Talon whimpered. I sat on the floor and opened the sling, rocking him gently while Fenn lit a small fire in the corner.

“I need to know,” I said finally, eyes still on Talon. “Who is Roran Vale?”

Fenn leaned against the wall. “No one really knows.”

“That’s comforting.”

He smirked. “They say he doesn’t kill unless he has to—but when he does, it’s permanent. They say he walks through battlefields without drawing steel. That his wolf doesn’t howl. It just stares.”

I looked up. “And?”

“And they say he’s building something. Not a pack. Not a tribe. A kind of… dominion. Rogues swear to him. Not because they have to. Because they want to.”

A silence stretched between us.

“He’s dangerous,” I said.

“Or powerful. Or both.”

I rocked Talon, watching the fire. “And you think we’ll run into him?”

Fenn shrugged. “If we keep heading south, we’ll cross into Iron Hollow within a few weeks.”

I stared at the flames. “Then we need to be ready.”

“Are you?”

I didn’t answer.

Not then.

Later, once Talon was asleep and the fire had burned low, I moved to sit beside Fenn. He’d cleaned the wound on his thigh again. Blood soaked through the fresh wrap.

“You need rest,” I said.

“So do you.”

“But I won’t get it.”

He tilted his head. “Because of him?”

I nodded. “Because of all of it.”

He didn’t press. Just handed me a hunk of dried meat and a water skin.

“You handled yourself well out there,” he said after a while.

I took the food, biting slowly. “You mean I didn’t cry or panic?”

“I mean you walked into a pit of wolves with your spine straight.”

“I didn’t feel brave.”

“You don’t have to feel brave to be brave.”

I met his eyes. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For helping us. For teaching me. For staying.”

He shrugged again, but his throat bobbed like the words hit deeper than he let on. “I owed you. You could’ve left me bleeding in that snow.”

“But I didn’t.”

“No,” he said softly. “You didn’t.”

We sat in silence a long while. Outside, wolves laughed around fires. Metal clanged against stone. Distant howls echoed against the cliffs.

This place wasn’t safe.

But it was real.

And somewhere in the dark, a name passed again—low, reverent, fearful.

Roran Vale.

And I knew it was only a matter of time before that name crossed our path in flesh.

But not tonight.

Tonight, we rested.

Tomorrow, we prepared.

And somewhere deep in my bones, my wolf whispered:

We will not kneel.