Winter had settled over the territory again, quiet and heavy.
Snow blanketed the forest floor, muting every sound except the occasional crack of a branch under frozen weight. The air smelled clean and sharp, the kind of cold that burned your lungs if you breathed too deeply.
Most wolves hated patrol duty this time of year.
I didn’t.
Cold made everything clearer. Sharper. More honest.
I exhaled slowly, watching the fog of my breath drift into the pale morning air as I moved through the trees. The northern border ran along a dense stretch of forest where the land grew steeper and rougher the farther you went. Patrols rotated through here regularly now. Rogue activity had increased over the past few months, and the council wasn’t taking chances.
But today I wasn’t officially on patrol.
