She ran.
Her breath tore at her throat. Snow split beneath her small, frantic steps. Branches whipped past, scratching through delicate fabric, biting at her skin. The wind carried the scent of iron, smoke, and men.
Behind her, something crashed through the trees.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Not the panicked scattering of deer.
Not the cautious treading of a fox.
Boots.
Voices.
Closer.
Faster.
She had to run faster.
A root caught her foot. She stumbled, palms slamming into ice-crusted earth. Cold punched through her hands, burrowed into bone. She scrambled up without a sound.
No crying.
No calling.
She had but one rule to follow in times like these.
And that was to make as little noise as possible.
The trees thinned. Snow fell harder here, swallowing tracks almost as quickly as they formed.
Almost.
A sharp crack split the air.
Thunder?
No.
A shot.
The sound punched through the woods and ricocheted in her ribcage. Bark exploded from a tree inches from where she'd been a heartbeat before.
She dove beneath a fallen trunk, curling into herself, fingers digging into the snow until they went numb.
Her breathing shallow.
"Left!" a voice shouted through the storm.
Boots crunched closer.
She didn't move, didn't cry.
A shadow stretched across the fallen trunk.
The boots stopped.
Another set of steps approached, slower this time.
"Got something?" a voice called from behind.
The first man crouched. He parted the snow-dusted branches with the barrel of his rifle and froze.
"Oh."
It wasn't a monster.
It wasn't a snarling beast.
It was a child.
A little girl no older than eight, soaked in melting snow, dark hair plastered to her face, eyes wide and glassy. Her coat was torn and her hands were scraped raw.
She didn't speak.
She just stared.
The man lowered his rifle.
"Christ," he muttered. "It's just a kid."
Behind him, the second hunter stepped around the trunk. Older. Grizzled. Beard crusted with frost. His gaze sharpened, unblinking.
He did not lower his weapon.
The younger hunter shrugged his pack off one shoulder. "Must've gotten separated from a caravan or something. We can't just leave her here."
She didn't move.
Didn't blink.
The older hunter's eyes narrowed.
"Don't," he said.
"What?"
"Don't fall for it."
The younger hunter frowned. "Fall for what? She's freezing."
"They do this."
"Huh?"
"When the small ones are found out alone they try look scared, to look hurt."
The younger hunter glanced back at the child. She trembled—small, fragile shivers.
"She's just a kid."
The older man stepped forward.
Her eyes flicked to him.
Something shifted there.
The younger hunter knelt.
"It's okay," he said softly, voice thick with something that didn't belong in a forest like this. "You're safe. We're not gonna hurt you."
Her lips parted.
For a moment, it looked like she might speak.
Instead—
She lunged.
Not at him.
Past him.
Her small body darted for open space.
But the older hunter was faster. A gloved hand snatched the back of her coat mid-stride and yanked her upward as if she weighed nothing.
She thrashed. Silent. Teeth bared.
The younger hunter stumbled back. "Hey—easy!"
The older man flipped her around.
Her coat rode up.
And there it was.
A tail.
Dark fur hidden beneath shredded fabric, trembling violently against the wind.
The younger hunter's face drained of color.
"See?" the older hunter said flatly. "It tricked ya."
She snarled then.
The sound was wrong.
Too low. Too sharp. Not a little girl's cry.
Her fingers curled. Nails pressed into his sleeve.
Her eyes flashed gold.
The younger hunter raised his rifle again, hands shaking now for a different reason.
"She's just a cub," he whispered.
"She's a wolf."
"She can't be any older than eight. Maybe nine."
"She'll be eighteen. Nineteen. One day."
The forest went quiet around them.
Snow fell.
The girl's gaze moved from one man to the other.
Hatred.
Fear.
Memory she refused to remember.
Yest she did not beg.
The older hunter shifted his grip and slung her over his shoulder like cargo.
She fought harder. Silent but vicious. Teeth snapping inches from his neck.
He tightened his hold until she stilled.
"Caravans'll pay for live ones," he said. "And the fur's softer when they're young."
The younger hunter didn't respond.
He just watched the child's face as she hung upside down from the man's back.
Their eyes met.
Just for a heartbeat.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Then the older hunter turned and began walking.
Boots carving deliberate tracks through the snow.
The younger hunter hesitated—just once—before following.
Behind them, the forest swallowed the sound.
Ahead of them, the storm grew louder.
Still, the child did not cry.
She only watched.
As they disappeared into the night.