Winter's grip had tightened since Blue Fire's hatching, and the mountain trails wore a hard crust of ice. By late morning the air smelled of wet stone and cedar, and the sun cast pale streaks across the snowbanks. Blue Fire padded beside me, paws silent, her small blue flame-shaped mark shimmering whenever stray sunlight found it.
She had grown taller in just a handful of weeks. Her once-stubby legs had lengthened into sleek, sure-footed limbs, and her eyes, oh, those sea glass emerald eyes, burned brighter with every passing day. Where she had once nuzzled my palm for reassurance, she now tested the edges of the world with a hunter's curiosity.
That morning, she stopped mid-trail, ears flicking. The wind whispered through the pines, but I heard nothing unusual. "What is it, Blue Fire?" I whispered, tugging my cloak tighter. Her nose quivered, and then, like a spark catching dry tinder, she bolted downslope. "Blue Fire," my shout startled a clutch of birds from the tree line. Their wings beat a frantic drum overhead as I stumbled after her, boots slipping on the ice.
The forest floor pitched steeply downward, a tangle of frosted undergrowth. My breath turned to fog in the frigid air. I heard her before I saw her: a low rumble that was neither growl nor purr, but something between, something like the sound of discovery. I rounded a cedar trunk and found her poised at the edge of a half-frozen brook. Her body was rigid with attention. Across the icy water, a small white hare crouched beneath a veil of brambles, its eyes two black beads of fear.
Blue Fire's muscles bunched. "No," I said, more plea than command. Her tail lashed once, twice. The hare twitched. "Blue Fire, stop!" For a heartbeat the world held its breath. Then the hare darted, a streak of white through the snow.
Blue Fire sprang, a blur of sand and the ghostly blue blaze across her back. She landed squarely on the far bank, snow spraying like powdered glass. The hare vanished into the underbrush, but Blue Fire didn't give chase. Instead she stood tall, ears high, a triumphant gleam in her eyes.
I waded through the brook, icy water biting my boots, and reached her side. "You're too young to hunt," I scolded, though a reluctant pride warmed my chest. Blue Fire tilted her head, as if weighing my words against the wild call that pulsed in her veins. It was then I realized, this was no longer the fragile hatchling I had cradled near the fire. This was the beginning of something untamed, something I could guide but never fully claim. Snowflakes drifted between us like slow sparks. And as the silence stretched, I sensed the first, quiet ember of the trials ahead.
The hare's tracks vanished into the brush, swallowed by the hush of falling snow. Blue Fire shook herself, scattering white crystals from her coat. The blue streak on her back caught a shred of pale sunlight and flared for an instant like paint on wet stone, only a color, nothing more, yet it always drew my eye.
"You'll give me grey hair before my time," I muttered, my breath fogging the air. Blue Fire flicked an ear, unimpressed, and trotted upstream as if she had meant to inspect the brook all along. I followed, boots crunching over ice, the cold seeping into my soles. She was restless these days, awake before dawn, eager to nose through every burrow and shadow. I had known hatchlings to be curious, but Blue Fire's curiosity had a streak of daring that kept me forever a step behind.
By the time we reached the cedar clearing near our camp, dusk was pushing its violet edge across the sky. I stoked the fire and set a small kettle to boil while she circled the perimeter, tail a pale banner against the dark trees. Every few minutes she returned to nudge my elbow, impatient for attention, only to dart off again when some new scent caught her own attention.
When the stars began to prick through the blue-black sky, she finally settled beside me, head on her paws. I reached down to rub the soft ruff of fur along her neck. The steady rise and fall of her breathing slowed, a rhythm that warmed the quiet between us. "You think you're grown already," I whispered, "but winter's only halfway spent." Her ear twitched at my voice, though her eyes stayed closed. The fire popped, throwing sparks into the night. Beyond the ring of light, the forest breathed its cold, slow breath.
The next morning broke in a pale wash of rose and silver. Frost rimed the tent-cabin's canvas like delicate lace. Blue Fire was already awake, nosing the flap, eager for the world beyond. I cinched my cloak and followed her into the brittle dawn. The snowfields lay unbroken except for a thin line of tracks, hers from yesterday, leading toward the ridge. She bounded ahead, each leap leaving a clean impression in the powder.
Halfway up the slope she stopped and glanced back at me, eyes bright, tail swishing as though to say, *keep up.* I smiled despite the cold biting my cheeks. She was no longer the fragile egg I had guarded through autumn. She was becoming herself, bold, unafraid of the long winter ahead.
And as I climbed to meet her on the ridge, the sun broke over the peaks, washing us both in light the color of new beginnings.