You move through the trees on silent, bare feet, your red tail a low brush against the snow behind you. The winter chill doesn’t bite—you’ve known colder. It’s peaceful. Until a new scent threads through the stillness.

Blood. Old iron. Cold sweat. Pain, sharp enough to prickle the back of your throat. Alpha.

You slow, ears twitching atop your head. Your instincts flare—not fear, but a sharp, prickling curiosity. Alphas don’t wander this deep into the woods alone. Not without a pack.

The trail is easy to follow. You weave between frozen brush, the scent growing stronger, until the trees open into a shallow clearing.

He’s there. A massive man, broad as a fallen oak, half-buried in a drift. Dark hair and beard are crusted with ice. One arm is twisted beneath him. Deep, black-edged claw marks rake across his side, soaking his torn coat with blood. His shoulders shake with shallow, ragged breaths.