Deeper. Go deeper into the ravine.
Maybe the wolves will lose my scent in the storm. Maybe the cold will claim me before they arrive. Maybe rescue will come from some unexpected quarter.
Maybe.
But even as I stumble forward into the white unknown, I know I'm lying to myself. There will be no rescue. No miraculous salvation. No happy ending for the runaway bride who thought she could survive on courage alone.
The storm swallows my footsteps as soon as I make them, erasing all trace of my passage. Behind me, Shadowmere grows quiet. Ahead, the ravine stretches on into nothingness.
And somewhere in the howling wind, wolves sing their ancient song of hunger and death.
2
VORRAK
The prints are wrong.
I crouch, studying the delicate impressions left in the powder. Too small for a man's foot. Too soft for hunter's leather. The heel tapers to a point of courtly fashion, not mountain practicality.
What fool wears dancing slippers into the northern wastes?
Dawn breaks grey and bitter over the ice fields, casting long shadows between the jagged rocks. I've been tracking since first light, following a sign that makes no sense. The stride is uneven, favoring the right foot. Fresh blood specks the snow, not much, but enough to tell a story of injury and desperation.
My breath steams in the frigid air as I lean closer. The scent hits me like a physical blow.
Nobility.
Not the honest sweat of working folk or the musk of fellow hunters. This is something else entirely with perfume and silk, rosewater and desperation. Fear, thick and acrid, beams through the delicate florals like an axe through parchment. Whoever left these tracks reeks of terror.
And gold. The metallic tang of wealth clings to the trail like a second skin.
I straighten, scanning the barren landscape ahead. The prints lead down into the ravine system, toward the killing grounds where ice wolves den in winter. No sane person ventures there alone, especially not some soft-handed court butterfly in silk slippers.
Unless they're running from something worse than wolves.
The wind shifts, bringing new scents. Storm-smell, heavy with the promise of ice and fury. My weathered face turns skyward, reading the grey-black clouds building on the horizon. Another blizzard, bigger than the one that passed in the night. It'll hit within the hour, maybe less.
Turn back. Let the storm claim whoever this is. Not your concern.
The smart play. The safe play. I've survived twenty-eight winters by knowing when to retreat, when to let the mountain sort out its own problems. Curiosity kills more hunters than bears or wolves ever do.
But my feet don't turn toward home.
Damn.
I adjust my grip on the hunting axe slung across my back, feeling the familiar weight of ironwood and steel. My pack holds enough provisions for three days, plus emergency shelter and fire-starting materials. I can weather the coming storm if I have to.
The question is whether I want to.
Noble spoor. Rich scent. Desperation.
The combination sets my teeth on edge. In my experience, wealthy folk don't wander the wilderness alone unless they're fleeing something terrible. Or someone terrible. Either way, it usually means trouble for anyone fool enough to get involved.
Not your problem, Vorrak.
I take a step back toward the clan territories, then stop. The blood catches the weak sunlight, dark red against pristine white. Fresh blood, still tacky despite the cold. Whoever made these tracks passed this way no more than an hour ago.
She's still alive.
