I breathe. Deep. I push past the stench of death. I search.
Wind. Snow. Pine. Stone. Nothing.
Again. Deeper. My lungs burn from the cold.
There.
It is faint. So faint the wind almost steals it.
The smell of smoke.
Not a fresh, burning fire. Old smoke. Cold smoke. The ghost of a thousand fires.
A man's den.
It is close. That way.
I grunt. I limp to her. She flinches as I get close. I am covered in blood. I smell like death.
I shove her. Gently. My claw nudges her shoulder.
I point with my head. Toward the scent.
"Go."
The word is a stone in my throat. A bark of sound.
She stumbles. She looks at my leg. Her sapphire eyes are wide with worry.
No. Go.
I shove her again. Harder.
She understands.
We move.
It is agony.
Every step is a new fire in my thigh. The Worg's bite... it is deep. My muscles tear with every step.
My blood leaves a dark trail in the white snow.
I do not care.
I follow her. I watch her. Protect. Move. Protect.
The wind is a knife. The cold is a hammer. I push. My vision blurs. The red haze tries to come back, but it is weak. It is just a fog of pain now.
Betty falls. The snow is deep. She is small.
I lift her. My arm wraps around her waist. I pull her up. I put her back on her feet.
Move.
She leans on me. Her small body presses against my side. Her warmth. It is nothing against the cold, but it is everything. It is purpose.
We find it.
