The word fell flat. No answering bark. No familiar ripple of grey-white fur breaking the surface. Just the groan of shifting ice and the distant cry of gulls.

She swam the length of the pod's hunting grounds in less than a minute, heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. The ice caves where her family slept were empty. The stones where they sunned themselves were bare. The water, once alive with the songs of a dozen voices, was silent.

She dove. Down past the ice shelves, down into the deep crevice where the poachers must have cornered them. There, caught between two slabs of rock, was a strip of familiar grey fur. Torn. Bloodied. Her mother's favorite skin, ripped from her body like a rag.