Mercy.

She remembered so many things now.

To spare a life was to ensure suffering.

Death was surer.

He would learn that.

She knelt by his tracks, resting her hand against the deep print of his boots.

Mercy.

He should never have touched the roses.

She stared at the briars. His tracks led past them, winding down the mountain to the soft green lands beyond, death somewhere on his person.

One step, and she was past the thorns.

Two steps, and she was free, free for as long as the rose stayed in his hands.

Thief.

She growled deep in her throat.

She should have killed him. Instead, she would show him the meaning of loss, as it had been shown to her.

Her howl swept down the mountain like the fall of a knife, sowing fear in its wake.

As he had taken, so would she.

As she had lost, so would he.

A rose for a rose, a thorn for a thorn.