The first snow came late that year.
Not a blizzard—just a slow drift of white dusting the pines and softening the hard lines of the yard. By midmorning, pups had already tracked it everywhere, shrieking with delight as they tried to eat it, throw it, and slide on it, often simultaneously.
Lyra stood on the porch with a mug, watching Kian and his conspirators attempt to build a lopsided wolf out of snow near the training field. Someone (probably Maeve) had stuck two mismatched buttons in as eyes; the effect was more mildly deranged than intimidating.
“You’re smiling,” Elara said, coming up beside her with her own tea. “Mark the date.”
“Lack of sleep,” Lyra said. “I’m delirious.”
Elara followed her gaze. “They’ve never seen it,” she said. “Like this. Storms and snow as…fun. Not as cover
