The torches reached the tree line before Jorren Dax did. He saw their orange light bouncing through the dark and ran, boots slipping on wet grass. Up ahead, the wolves he had fed for two months waited behind the first trees. The witch would not come until spring. If the mob killed the wolves tonight, she would hate him when she arrived, and he could not bear that. He loved wild things, and so did she. That was the whole hope he carried. The miller led them. He held a lantern high and a club low. Behind him stood a dozen villagers with pitchforks and stones. At the front, a small man in a torn cloak dragged something heavy across the dirt. Hadwin Graymoor, the old shepherd. He let the dead ewe fall at Jorren's feet. Its coat was matted and still. "They took her like they took my boy," Hadwin said. His voice was low and worn thin. "You feed the beasts that bleed us, smith. Step aside." Jorren looked at the ewe. Then he looked at Hadwin's shaking hands. He knew that grief. He felt it in his own chest some mornings, when his fist would not close. "Wolves don't gut and leave," Jorren said. He knelt and turned the ewe's body. No bites. One clean cut under the foreleg. "This was a blade. A man's knife." The miller stepped forward fast. "He lies to save his pets." Jorren did not stand to fight. He stayed kneeling in the dirt, huge and still, and held the wound open for Hadwin to see. "Look close. You buried a son. Don't you want the truth of who killed this one?" Hadwin leaned down. His lantern light fell on the cut. For a long moment he said nothing. Then he turned and stared at the miller. "You lost two sheep last season," Hadwin said. "And you wanted them counted against the wolves." The miller's face went hard. "Old fool. Burn the trees and be done." But the villagers were already lowering their forks. One by one they looked from the clean cut to the miller's lantern, then back. Hadwin stood between Jorren and the mob, his torn cloak hanging off his thin shoulders. "Go home," the shepherd told them. "No wolf did this." The crowd broke apart. Torches wandered back down the hill. The miller stayed last, his club still in his fist. He pointed it at Jorren. "You've made the shepherd love you tonight," the miller said. "But I'll find the one who killed his boy, and I'll swear it was your wolves. Then no witch, no shepherd, no flower in your beard saves them." He turned and walked down into the dark. Jorren stayed with the dead ewe and the breathing trees. The wolves had lived. But now the miller needed a murderer, and Jorren knew he would not care if the story was true.