Wren
The snow brought the festival with it.
Berta explained it to me while we rolled dough for honey cakes. Every year, on the first full moon after the first snow, the Nightbane Pack held the Snow Moon Festival. Fires in the square. Music. Dancing. The whole pack together in the cold, celebrating that they had made it to winter as one family.
"And this year," Berta said, poking my arm with a floury finger, "you will wear something beautiful, and you will dance."
"I'll help serve the food."
"You will dance."
"Berta."
"Child." She stopped rolling and looked at me. Her eyes were soft. "I have watched you these months. When you came here, you walked like someone trying not to be seen. You don't walk like that anymore. Let them see you."
My throat went tight. I didn't answer. But that
