Snow. It's cold and white, like iron in her lungs; the air tastes of blood each time it passes through her throat.It's just the cold that does it.There's no blood to be found, no warm meat to fill empty bellies, nothing to satisfy the urge of a hungry wolf—to calm the restless hunger of a predator. There's only snow and cold, breath steaming into the air, the silence, and the heartbeat counting down the time.It's getting late, Cézanne.
A lone trail of paws led from northeast to southwest, but you had to be there to see them, for the wind covered them up within an hour. It tugged at her fur, forced her eyes to teary, yellow slits, ears flat against her skull. She was no stranger to cold, to snow, but it had been many years since she'd had the rumbling of her belly for company this long. The search for her brother had become something else: the search for food, the struggle to survive. She was old, but not too old. In the deepest hours of night her joints ached dully, but in the half-light of the pale, distant sun, she was just like any other wolf, fleet of foot and strong of mind, sound of heart.Maybe even more stubborn than most.She wasn't interested in leaving the forest; the trees kept the howling, rugged winds at bay, trapped some of the sparse heat beneath their heavy pine boughs. A faux sense of security.Senses strained in the darkness, and Cézanne's lips curled into a grimace. Stars, and the moon, crowded the black sky, and everything was shadows and pristine light, the snow glittering like the cold, cruel carpet it was. But the view, was not why she was here. This stretch of the forest smelled of pack territory, and this was the closest she had come to the scent markers since she'd first caught wind of it. Cézanne was headstrong, fierce, but not stupid; she had read the signs for weeks.The herds were leaving.Winter, was coming.
The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.