Jasper Bole waited for someone to die, and the town of Eldervein kept disappointing him. He looked eight years old. His green coat hung in tatters. He had watched kingdoms burn and crops rot and plagues empty whole cities, and he laughed at every grave because death was the best joke he knew. He came to Eldervein to teach one grieving soul why. But winter slammed the roads shut, and no one here had died in months. He sat in the town's only inn and counted the healthy. A fat baker. A red-cheeked blacksmith. Children who fell from fences and bounced. Jasper tapped the table and sighed. "A whole town, and not one fresh coffin," he muttered. His dragon lay curled by the hearth, scales bright green and gold, wings folded against the cold. The beast watched him with warm, patient eyes. "We're stuck, old friend. Snow all the way down." Then the door banged open. A woman stumbled in, snow in her hair, carrying a small pink owl carved from wood. Its belly looked like golden corn. She set it on the bar and sank onto a stool. "My son made this," she said to no one. "Last autumn." Her voice cracked. The room went quiet. The baker looked at his hands. The blacksmith studied the fire. Jasper sat up. Here, at last, was grief. The boy had died before the snow, before Jasper arrived. He had missed the funeral. But the mother remained, raw and open. He crossed the room and climbed onto the stool beside her. "That's a funny little bird," he said. He touched the wooden owl. "Corn for a belly. Did he think owls ate from the field?" The woman stared at him. "Who are you?" "Someone who's buried more sons than you've met," Jasper said. He grinned. "Death took him. You know what death is? The oldest trick in any kingdom. It makes you cry over wood." He spun the owl on the bar. "He's not gone. He's just early. We all go early." The woman did not laugh. She slapped the owl off the bar. It clattered to the floor. "Get away from me," she whispered. Then louder: "Get this creature away from me!" The innkeeper stepped forward. The blacksmith stood. Jasper felt the room turn, felt the warmth become ice. His dragon lifted its head and growled low. Jasper picked up the fallen owl and set it gently back on the bar. His joke had failed. Worse, it had marked him. "Easy," he said, backing toward the hearth. "Easy." Outside, a wolf howled. Through the window Jasper saw it cross the white street. Pink fur. Green eyes. It stopped and stared straight at the inn, at him. The townsfolk saw it too. They went silent again, but this silence had teeth. The snow still trapped him. Now the town wanted him gone, and something waited in the cold that was not quite a wolf.