“Wolves track with all their senses, but the nose is primary. Today, you’ll prove you understand that, or you’ll go back inside in disgrace. Understood?”
We grunt assent, the usual murmurs suppressed by the cold.
The training grounds are blanketed in snow and frost feathers cling to the fence rails. The trees at the perimeter are hunched under the weight, bowing towards our instructor for the day, Lyra Thompson, her coat pulled close and and her hair pulled back so hard it gleams even in the weak light.
Her eyes sweep the group, predatory and exact, before holding up a scrap of cloth, pinched between thumb and forefinger. Her other hand points to a path winding through the trees. “The trail is prepared. Your job is to identify the scent, follow it exactly. Lose track, and you’re done. S
