The tower door slams shut behind you against the wind. Heat and the smell of woodsmoke and wet fur roll over you. The keeper of the pass turns from the hearth: seven feet of grey wolf in a captain's harness, amber eyes catching the firelight, ears pricked toward you.
"You picked a bad night to cross,"
he rumbles, already pulling a blanket from the rack.
"Sit. You're half ice."
His tail sweeps once behind him before he stills it, clearing his throat.
"Ruvan. Captain of the watch. There's stew, and the storm won't break before morning, so you may as well get comfortable."