Fenrir The White had crossed half of Playa V searching for one wolf. Snow crusted the giant dire wolf's fur, white on white, and blue eyes swept the frozen ground for tracks. Somewhere ahead lay a shelter where scattered wolves gathered when they needed a leader. Only one wolf could lead them there safely. Her name was Valentine, and Fenrir loved her. Without her gift, the packs would stay lost, easy prey for the hunters who wanted them dead. Fenrir followed her scent up a ridge. It grew stronger near a cliff where a small cafe clung to the rock. This was where they had first met, seasons ago. Now the tables sat empty. A red stain marked the wooden deck. Fenrir smelled fear, and under it, blood. A voice drifted from below the cliff. "Easy now. She's worth more breathing." Fenrir crept to the edge and looked down. A huge man stood in a clearing, taller than any human Fenrir had seen. He wore a wide hat and a pack heavy with gear. A rifle hung in his thick hands. This was the hunter who tracked Valentine, the one who wanted her power for himself. Beside him lay a rope net, and in it, a small gray wolf. Valentine. She thrashed against the ropes. The hunter crouched and grinned, jaw slack. "Come on, sweetheart. You lead 'em, I collect 'em. Simple." Fenrir did not wait. The dire wolf leaped from the ridge and landed between the hunter and the net. Snow burst up around them. The man stumbled back and swung his rifle up. Fenrir lunged and clamped down on the barrel before he could fire. The gun bent and cracked. The hunter cursed and swung his pack like a club. It struck Fenrir's shoulder hard. Fenrir staggered, then drove forward and knocked the man flat into the snow. The hunter scrambled up, empty-handed now, breathing fast. He looked at the size of the dire wolf standing over him. Then he ran, crashing through the trees, leaving his broken rifle behind. Fenrir turned to the net. Gently, the great jaws pulled the ropes apart. Valentine limped free. Her hind leg bled where a rope had cut deep. She leaned against Fenrir, and Fenrir pressed close, warm and steady. But Valentine's eyes were wide with something worse than pain. She could barely stand. Her gift needed her to walk ahead of the packs, to lead them to safety. Now she could not walk at all. Fenrir looked back at the trail the hunter had cut. The man would return, and he would bring others. The scattered packs still waited, still lost. Valentine was found, but she was wounded, and the one wolf who could lead the packs to sanctuary could no longer lead them. Fenrir would have to carry her, and find the way alone.

Fenrir lowered Valentine onto a bed of soft snow. Her hind leg still bled where the rope had cut. She was too weak to walk, and the sanctuary lay far ahead. Fenrir pressed close, warm and steady, and waited for her breathing to slow. Valentine lifted her head. Her eyes found Fenrir's, then closed. She reached out with her gift, the same power that could guide the packs. This time she turned it inward. Fenrir felt a strange pull, a warmth flowing from their own body into hers. The dire wolf did not fight it. If Valentine needed strength to heal, Fenrir would give it. Around them, tiny lights blinked in the dark. A swarm of fireflies drifted close, glowing warm and green. They left small drops of ink on the snow where they passed. Their light fell on Valentine's leg. Slowly, the bleeding stopped. The torn skin closed. Valentine's breath grew deep and even. Then she stood. Fenrir stared. Valentine put weight on the leg. It held. She took one step, then another. Her wound was gone. "You did this," she said softly. "You gave me what I needed." She licked Fenrir's muzzle once. Then her ears snapped forward. "The packs. They're close. I can feel them now." She bolted into the trees. Fenrir ran after her. Joy pushed them both fast. Valentine could walk again. She could lead again. They tore through the snow toward the scattered wolves, past frozen brush, over a low ridge. Neither of them looked back. Neither of them saw the deep prints they left behind, dark holes pressed into fresh white snow, a clear line pointing straight ahead. Behind them, a broad shape moved along the ridge. It was the hunter. He had come back, just as Fenrir feared. His rifle was broken, but he carried a new one now, and a heavy pack. He lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes. His yellow beard caught the firefly light. His jaw hung slack as he grinned. "There you are, sweetheart," he murmured. "And you brought the big one along." He knelt by the tracks. Two sets of prints, one huge, one small, both fresh. He touched the edge of a print. Still warm. He looked up the trail toward the trees where Fenrir and Valentine had vanished. He did not need to rush. The snow would hold the trail for hours. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and started walking, slow and sure, following the marks the wolves had left. Ahead, Fenrir and Valentine reached a clearing. Dozens of wolves rose from the shadows, thin and afraid. They circled Valentine, tails low, waiting. She had found them at last. Fenrir stood tall among them, proud. But the packs were gathered in one place now. And a hunter was coming, step by step, straight toward every wolf that Fenrir had sworn to save.