The city was restless. Whiterun's air was weighted with the sharp metallic smell of blood. She noticed it well before reaching the stables, cutting through the stench of the witches' heads hidden in the sack on her shoulder.

Althea hurried through the city, her steps nearing a run when she caught the scent of werewolf blood.

The stairs leading to the Gildergreen were blocked with citizens; a few moved aside to let her through, the others she had to push out of the way. She caught sight of Aela and Torvar, as well as several dead bodies.

"Sister," Aela said with a nod of her head, a tightness in her voice.

Torvar simply held his sword, still ready for a fight.

"What happened?!" Althea asked.

"The Silver Hand attacked," Aela explained. "Gathered the nerve to come directly to Jorrvaskr."

Althea rushed passed Aela before she finished speaking, dropping the sack before shoving the door open.

Her body froze, blood running cold at the sight of Kodlak's body on the floor.

She launched forward toward her Harbinger, but something wrapped around her and pulled her back, slamming her against the wall. A bare forearm pressed against her throat.

"Where were you?!" Vilkas growled at her through clenched teeth.

His eyes were rimmed in red, but her own were focused on the red staining the white hair on the floor.

Kodlak's lifeless body was covered by a blanket, but his head was left free; eyes closed, beard disheveled, and surrounded by the smell of blood and a fresh Turning. Althea tore her eyes away from him and found Athis lying on the floor as well, but he was still breathing, and Ria and Telma were tending to his injuries.

The pressure on her throat was suddenly increased, forcing a choked cry from Althea.

"Where. Were. You." Vilkas demanded.

His glassy eyes held Althea's, almost daring her to look away. He looked ready to crush her throat if given a reason. Her stomach lurched, and even with their arguments, their violent sparring matches, their full-fledged brawls… for the first time, she truly feared Vilkas.

"I—I was—" her voice barely a whisper.

She clawed at his arm and attempted to kick him, but it had little effect. No one seemed to be able to pull out of the shock of Kodlak's death enough to intervene.

With Vilkas pressing further and further, Althea grew desperate and was being pushed toward a loss of control. Her silver irises rippled with the near-glowing orange that came before Turning. As the whites of her eyes began to take on the yellow that follows, she managed to let out a guttural growl, both a warning and a plea.

Her growl seemed to catch Farkas's attention.

"Vilkas!" he snapped, grabbing his twin's arm and jerking it from Althea's neck.

Doubling over and trying to catch her breath, Althea calmed her wolf's call and her eyes returned to their eerie silver. Her hand reached for her neck, vibrating against her fingers as she coughed, testing how tender the area was.

"I was out… on Kodlak's orders," she choked out between coughs.

"It better had been damn well important!" he shot back, his voice cracking as his eyes brimmed with tears. "If you'd been here, he'd still be alive! This is your fault!"

Althea let her hand fall, and Vilkas made no move to attack, but Farkas remained in place.

She straightened and threw her fist into the side of his jaw, nearly falling with the momentum. Vilkas bent to the side at the impact but shot back up, ready to retaliate.

"Don't you dare blame this on me, you piece of shit!" she cried.

Despite her objection, she felt the guilt: Vilkas was right. If she had made it back sooner, she could've saved him. Another sword-hand, another werewolf… it could've made all the difference. The thought made her chest feel as though a silver-laced sword pierced through it, and at that moment, she wanted little more than to extend that pain to Vilkas.

A strong hand on Vilkas's shoulder and a startlingly wise voice were all that prevented a brawl between the two shield-siblings.

"This isn't anyone's fault except the Silver Hand's," Farkas said. "Fighting isn't going to bring Kodlak back."

With a glance at his brother, Vilkas let out a sigh and relaxed his body. He looked back at Althea, a touch of anger still lingering.

"Where did you go?" he asked.

"Kodlak sent me to kill the Glenmoril witches," she replied, rubbing her knuckles. "He thought he figured out a way to cure the lycanthropy."

Her eyes fell to Kodlak. Vilkas turned slightly to follow Althea's line of sight.

"I—He didn't tell me he was going to act on his findings," he muttered. "He told me… It doesn't matter. We'll deal with it later."

Taking a deep breath, Vilkas straightened his back, regaining the authoritative aura he so often carried.

"The Silver Hand stole our fragments of Wuuthrad," he began, his voice hard. "Kodlak and the fragments are gone, but the fragments can be recovered."

Turning to his brother, Vilkas continued, "Take care of his body, Farkas. You and Aela should prepare a pyre."

"I'm not coming with you?" Farkas asked.

"Not this time, brother."

"You're going alone?"

"No, he's not," Althea said before Vilkas could respond.

"You're not com—"

Althea stepped closer to Vilkas, leaving mere inches between them. Her index finger jabbed into his bare chest, just below a fresh. She ignored his wince.

"You go alone, you die," she hissed. "You're not in charge, no matter how much you like to pretend. I'm going with you."

Vilkas set his jaw, but he conceded. "Fine. We're going to their chief camp, Driftshade Refuge. No doubt, that's where they've taken the fragments and where most of them are holed up."

Althea crossed her arms and nodded. "We pack light and move as quickly as we can," she said. "We give them no time to recover."

"Agreed."

"Take a few of the bastards out for me," Athis called out from behind Telma who was treating his wounds.

Althea snarled. "We're taking them all out."

Her fingers fumbled through her dresser, grabbing the first set of spare clothes she found and tossing them in her pack. She continued packing, both mindlessly and so focused she didn't notice Vilkas in her doorway.

"Are you ready?"

She flinched at his voice but quickly steadied herself.

"Yes," she responded, pulling her pack onto her shoulders. "We're taking horses."

"Of course. We give them no time."

Running in their wolf-forms would've been even faster than the horses, but they needed all of their strength and energy for the battle they were heading into.

He turned to leave, and she followed behind him. Returning upstairs, Telma was ready with parcels of food for each of them.

"Finish the bastards that did this," Telma hissed.

"We will," Vilkas replied.

Aela entered as Vilkas spoke; she noticed Althea's and Vilkas's packs and narrowed her eyes for a moment, but her gaze soon softened.

The two Companions that got along the least had the closest bond with Kodlak; it seemed only right that they be the ones to avenge Kodlak. At least, that was what Althea assumed when none of the others seemed to object to being left behind.

"You two are going after them," the huntress surmised. "I'll cover the immediate area outside the city. Make sure none of them remained nearby."

She paused, her gaze moving between her two shield-siblings, and her voice lowered. "The jarl will have questions. As will the whelps."

"We'll deal with that when we come back," Althea responded.

Both issues would require a… delicate touch, one that wouldn't be found in any of the Circle members at that moment.

"We've wasted too much time already," Althea said, heading toward the door before anything more could be said to delay them. "Let's go, Vilkas."

The pair left the mead hall and found guards outside, helping Torvar carry off the bodies. They nodded to the Circle members, a silent condolence for the great warrior's passing.

"Torvar," she said, catching sight of the sack by the door. "Have Aela put that in a safe place," she instructed, pointing. "Make sure it isn't in Jorrvaskr."

He nodded, "Will do." His gaze shifted to the weapons and packs the two carried. "Make sure you both come back. Can't lose nobody else."

Everybody had to add their own comment, taking more precious time from them, but Althea understood. She offered a nod herself and continued through the city with Vilkas at her side.

Althea glanced at each of the citizens they passed; their eyes still held traces of fear, unsure if another attack would follow. She saw no grief, no signs of personal loss. This attack was focused solely on the Companions—no one else suffered in the skirmish. At least she wouldn't have to feel guilty for that.

They soon reached the stables, and the stablemaster, Skulvar, was brushing the neck of a large horse. He noticed their approach and greeted them at the edge of the hay.

"Companions," he said, lowering his head in welcome. "How can I help ya?"

"We need your best horses," Vilkas demanded.

"Right here," the stablemaster said, moving between a black horse and a spotted gray one. "I'll saddle them and get 'em ready for ya. What do ya need 'em for?"

"Vengeance," Althea replied immediately.

Vilkas shot a glance at her but said nothing.

Skulvar nodded. "No charge."

"Thank you," Vilkas said.

The pair grabbed the reins of each, Vilkas with the black, Althea with the gray. They hooked their packs to the saddle and prepared for the journey; once ready, the two mounted their horses and headed onto the north road.

It was a three-day journey to Driftshade Refuge.

When the sun began to set, the shield-siblings decided to camp for the night and continue at dawn. They stopped in a small clearing in the woods just off the road and tied their horses to the trunks of two thinner trees. They set up their tents, Althea finishing first: she always managed to get it balanced before Vilkas, a small victory she often teased him for, but there was no humor that night. She ventured wordlessly deeper into the woods in search of kindling.

Returning a few moments later with fallen tree debris in her arms, she found Vilkas sitting beside an area he appeared to have cleared for the fire. He was fiddling with a stone in his hands while a u-shaped piece of metal sat on the ground by his foot.

Althea knelt and set to work positioning the wood; her mind hyperfocused on making the twigs lean against each other in near-perfect symmetry. She almost had it finished before moving her right hand a tad too far, knocking most of the sticks over. Her jaw clenched, and she began again. Fingers held each stick in place for a moment longer than necessary before moving to the next, and then the next, and the next. Until they fell again.

One of the sticks cracked against the trunk of a tree after Althea whipped it through the air. Vilkas's head shot up; she could feel his gaze on her, but she didn't look at him. She swatted the rest of the sticks with the back of her hand and dropped into a seated position with an infuriated huff.

They didn't need a fire; werewolves were notoriously warm regardless of the temperature. The fire was simply a comfort, but it seemed a useless effort; there was no comfort to be found while the Silver Hand still lived.