Ylva wakes in a cage. Her wolf Gráauga lies muzzled and chained in the one beside her. The caravan moves south, carrying the scent of sun and sand and curved blades. The riders speak a tongue she doesn't know, and they mention a lord who likes teeth. Stripped of her knives and cut off from the Weave, Ylva is cargo now — bound for a desert empire and a master whose ambitions reach far beyond the frozen north she called home.
