He’d heard the stories. Everyone had. Stories of surviving long winters with barely enough meat to feed their beasts; stories of enemies with their throats ripped out, staining white snow with crimson.
Nobody called them legends. A story isn’t a legend when it’s true.
Before the wars, over two hundred Wolflords roamed the land. Now there were less than fifty, but their number was steadily growing. It would only be a matter of time before they became as powerful as they once were.
All Ephraim could do on winter nights was huddle under his blanket, watch the moon through his window and listen to the howls.