She smelled it, sharp and bitter on the wind.

The pack smelled it, too.

Blood, and another smell— a smell she had not scented in years, not this far north. She padded through the woods; the pack ranged behind and ahead and to either side, white shapes against the blue-white drifts.

Tracks.

Fresh.

Leather, horse, lynx, wolf, elk, bear, sweat, blood, piss, ale, wool, metal, grain, smoke.

She raised her head, nostrils flared, turning from side to side for any sounds beyond the creaking pines.

There.

Downwind, but it didn’t matter. Not for this game. A faint jingle. A creak that was not bark on bark. A cough that did not belong to cat or elk.

The old hate quickened.

The pack tightened around her.

Red tongues lolled.

Breath steamed.

Winter bared her teeth.