12
Svein
Thick snow piled between the rows and rows of dark trees. My world was black and white, simple and clean. The cold muted all the smells of the world, except for the sharp sky scent of the falling flakes. I climbed a large rock and rested a while, letting the snow pile higher and higher. I’d woken early to mark my territory, going from tree to tree to splash my scent on the bark, leaving a clean border I’d defend unto death. My territory was all I had left.
The black wolf trudged through the drifts, nose lowered as if he was on the hunt. I waited until he passed the pine grove and approached my standing stone before I raised my head and growled.
The black wolf stopped and gazed at me. His golden eyes were clear, but I knew better. There, on the edge of his scent—the bitter smel
