Prologue –

The language of a Wolf

My lips burned; chapped by the blizzard. A crack upon frozen lake echoed, daring me to tread just a little heavier. I stopped, crouching low beneath the swamp of mush and snow, and dragged a pearly white scarf up over my facial features. Cold, blue eyes were all that remained.

Pink dusk hung low above my position, entrenched under the canyons of splintered trees, twisted down with ice and smut. Blinking away thistles arching toward in streams of diamond-threaded gusts, I grimaced at my bitter surroundings.

Then, my foe, my enemy, the one who must be killed, emerged.

A furry, razor-coated wolf emerged from the tundra. Deep crimson engulfed around its jaw line – liquid from a fresh meal. Lowly growling, marking its territory, the white wolf scanned around, sniffing wildly – its nose seemingly immune to the frost.

Those wolf eyes stared into my position, then, left.

Fear enveloped me, yet I resisted its cruel blade thrust deep into my spine and reached warily behind myself, grasping for my weapon.

Fingers scattering with calm urgency, a thin, finely carved bow began to form with the touch, and I pulled it straight over my shoulder and into the battlefield, careful not to agitate any of the clumsy surrounding snow.

In spite of my anxious breathing, the beast remained unaware of me, at all; it calmly neared a smashed icicle and licked at the remnants – obviously desperate for any form of hydration.

A strange, foreign feeling erupted within me – begging me not to attack the creature. However, I silenced these thoughts quickly with my years of training and readied my bow; arming it cautiously with a sharp, greenly tinted arrow.

Palms sweating, even through the unbearable cold, I drew back the projectile, string almost tearing with the pressure, closed an eye, spied the wolf, aimed, and shook; I shook there, unable to do anything.

Figures of my mentors rose up from the shadows and scolded me for my weakness; they chanted:

"Pathetic! Useless! Weak!"

Water forming in the corners of my eyelids panicked with the cold, but froze almost immediately. Arms locked in that same, aggressive pose; unable to move, I whimpered. My hands instantly burning, hotter than the sun; closing my eyes with pain – I had to let go.

Eyes exploded open. The arrow shot – cutting through the air with a devastating whip. Aiming hampered by my emotions, it barely skimmed the beast's shoulder.

Wolf eyes fuelled with an instinctive anger bit and lunged toward me. The Animal readied its pounce from a mad dash, springing beyond the dead snow.

I raised my bow, drew another arrow. The wolf jumped, exposing its chest. I shot.

A short, pained wail escaped the beast as the arrow impaled deep into its heart. Then, it simply lay there, motionless.

I no longer felt the need to cry. My teachers had been right all along:

"There is no place for emotion on the battlefield. Show no mercy, for you shall receive none. Emotion is the greatest weakness. Kill or be killed"

Only then, after my first kill, did I fully understand their language.