Facing the Wolf
1093 Words
Despite its size, it moved like a wolf. Animal, I reassured myself. Just an animal. I didn’t let myself consider the alternative—not when I needed a clear head and steady breath.
I had a hunting knife and three arrows. The first two were ordinary—simple and effective, but likely no more than bee stings to a wolf that big.
But the third arrow—the long, heavy one—I had bought from a traveling peddler one summer when we’d had enough coins for small luxuries.
Its shaft was carved from mountain ash, tipped with an iron head.
From cradle songs, we all knew as children that faeries hated iron. But it was ash wood that made their immortal healing falter just enough for a human to land a killing blow—or so the legends claimed.
The only proof we had was the rarity of ash itself. I’d seen sketches of the trees, but never with my own eyes—not since the High Fae had burned them down long ago.
So few remained, most of them sickly and hidden behind noble walls.
I had spent weeks after buying that arrow wondering if it had been a waste, a fake. And for three years, it had sat untouched in my quiver.
Now I drew it, keeping my movements small and efficient—anything to avoid that monstrous wolf looking my way.
The arrow was long and heavy enough to do damage—possibly kill, if I aimed right.
My chest grew so tight it hurt. And in that moment, I realized my life had boiled down to one question: was the wolf alone?
I gripped my bow tighter and pulled the string back further.
I was a decent shot, but I’d never faced a wolf.
I’d thought that made me lucky—maybe even blessed. But now… I didn’t know where to aim or how fast they moved.
I couldn’t afford to miss. Not when I had only one ash arrow.
And if it truly was the heart of a faerie beating beneath that pelt—then good riddance.
Good riddance, after all their kind had done to us. I wouldn’t risk that one coming to our village later to butcher and torment and destroy. Let him die here and now. I’d be glad to end him.
The wolf crept closer, and a branch snapped under one of its paws—each one larger than my hand. The doe froze. She looked around, ears twitching toward the gray sky.
With the wolf downwind, she couldn’t smell or see him.
Her head lowered—and his massive silver body, so perfectly blended into the snow and shadows, crouched into a pounce.
The doe was still looking the wrong way.
I glanced from the deer to the wolf and back. At least he was alone—at least I had that much.
But if he scared her off, I’d be left with nothing but a hungry, oversized wolf—possibly a faerie in disguise—searching for its next meal.
And if he killed her, destroying precious hide and fat…
If I misjudged, my life wouldn’t be the only one lost.
But my life had been nothing but risk for the past eight years.
I had hunted these woods, and I had chosen correctly most of the time. Most of the time.
The wolf pounced from the brush in a flash of gray and white and black, yellow fangs flashing.
He was even bigger in the open—raw power, speed, and force.
The doe didn’t stand a chance.
I fired the ash arrow before he could destroy much more of her.
The arrow struck his side, and I could have sworn the earth shook.
He barked in pain, releasing her neck as his blood sprayed the snow—bright as rubies.
He turned toward me, golden eyes wide, fur bristling.
His low growl rumbled in my stomach as I rose to my feet, snow stirring around me, another arrow nocked.
But the wolf only stared at me, jaw bloodied, my ash arrow grotesquely protruding from his side.
The snow began falling again. He looked at me—and with a kind of awareness and surprise that made me release the second arrow.
Just in case—just in case that intelligence was of the immortal, twisted sort.
He didn’t try to dodge. The arrow sailed clean through his wide golden eye.
He collapsed.
Color and darkness spun in my vision, mixing with the snow.
His legs twitched as a low whimper sliced through the air.
Impossible—he should be dead, not dying.
The arrow had gone through his eye, nearly to the fletching.
But wolf or faerie, it didn’t matter.
Not with that ash arrow buried in his side. He’d be dead soon enough.
Still, my hands shook as I brushed snow off and crept closer, keeping a good distance.
Blood streamed from the wounds I had given him, staining the snow crimson.
He pawed at the ground, breathing slower. Was he in pain, or was his whimper just a final resistance against death?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
The snow swirled around us. I stared at him until the charcoal, obsidian, and ivory fur stopped rising and falling.
A wolf—definitely just a wolf, despite his size.
The tightness in my chest eased and I let out a breath, watching it fog in front of me.
At least the ash arrow had proven itself deadly, no matter what it struck.
A quick look at the doe told me I could carry only one animal—and even that would be a struggle. But it felt wrong to leave the wolf behind.
Wasting a few precious minutes—during which any predator could smell the fresh blood—I skinned him and cleaned my arrows as best I could.
If nothing else, it warmed my hands.
I wrapped the bloody side of his pelt around the doe’s mortal wound before slinging her over my shoulders.
It was several miles back to our cottage, and I didn’t need a trail of blood leading every fanged predator straight to me.
Grumbling under the weight, I gripped the deer’s legs and spared one final glance at the steaming corpse of the wolf.
His remaining golden eye now stared at the snow-filled sky, and for a moment, I wished I had it in me to feel remorse for the dead thing.
But this was the forest.
And it was winter.
- Writer
