It is a quiet and somber group that leaves the forest this evening, carrying torches and riding slowly. It seems almost like a funeral procession, and in many ways, it is. The horses have been saddled and loaded with what spoils could be taken from the Black Wolf camp, but the only rider some of them carry is the body of their master or mistress, wrapped in strips of tent canvas.
You ride in silence at the head of the column, and your thoughts drift to the battle that will soon be taking place somewhere out on the Great Steppe. It seems like an event that has become unstuck in time; although it will soon be decided one way or another, for you, the result will come down to one single moment—the moment when you yourself hear the news. You think of your father, of Kral, and of your new ally Vanya riding beside you. You think of your strange experience in the spirit world, and of the gods—particularly Svarog, who seemed to aid you in the forest. You think of Zhan-Ukhel and his Tribe of the Black Wolf. And your thoughts grow troubled.
The sound of thunder rumbles in the distance, far out over the steppe, and you spur your horse faster. Toward home.
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