She drops her stick.
Foolish.
She steps closer.
My claws twitch in the snow. Kill. Even in death, the Urog magic demands it.
But I am too weak.
She reaches out a small, pale hand. It hovers, shaking, in the air between us.
And then she touches me.
Her hand lands on my bicep, just above the elbow.
Warmth.
A small, shocking patch of fire. Not the fire of magic, but the fire of life. It burns through my frozen hide. It is the first thing I have felt besides pain and cold in… forever.
The red haze… it recoils. It shrivels, pulling back from her touch like a shadow from a torch.
What… is… this?
She grunts, a small, weak sound. And… pulls?
She is pulling me.
This tiny, impossible creature, trying to move a mountain. The absurdity of it. She strains, her mud-brown hair falling into her face, her sky-eyes squeezed shut.
She is trying to save me.
Why?
The red haze whispers. Trick. Trap.
But her scent is pure. Fear. Effort. Pity.
She pulls again. I am a dead weight, a mountain of useless muscle. But I do not stop her. I don’t want to stop her. With little energy I have left, I willed my body to move.
The red is fading. The cold is gone. There is only her scent, and the small, burning star of a hand on my arm.
The world goes black.
Warm.
Safe.
A new scent. Fire-smell. But not the elf-fire that burns villages. A contained fire. Wood. Hearth. Dry herbs.
And her scent. Everywhere. Snow. Berries. Human.
I am in a den.
My eyes snap open.
The red haze is still there, a thin, smoky film over the world. But it is quiet. Watching.
I am on a bed of furs. I am... inside.
