Daine woke to twilight. Her face was buried in Kodiak's winter coat, which covered all six-hundred pounds of the bear mothers heft, thick and course against her already chapped skin. The cubs—Moonwish, Frostflank, Boneclaw, and Spirit—were curled around her back and feet. She turned, inhaling fresh air that was too sharp. When she exhaled she could see her breath in the lingering light of the den. She pushed against them to free herself from their heft, trying not to disturb them more than she needed. Still, the cubs stirred—stretching disproportionate limbs and blinking sleep fro their eyes. Spirit, paler than the others and the youngest, trundled after her as she coiled her bedroll and put it with her pack.

Are we going out? she asked, scratching at the floor of the den.

You are going nowhere, Kodiak scolded, barely awake. Come sleep.

Spirit huffed and looked at Daine, who shook her head and shooed her back to her siblings. Mind your mother. You can tussle with Boneclaw and Moonwish when they wake.

She watched the cub stomp back to the pile, and fall gracelessly into the free space Daine had left. The young weren't yet a year old—the lighter fur of their natal collars still faintly visible—and it was their first hibernation. So far, not quite a month in, they found it dreadfully boring. Still, Spirit was asleep again within moments.

She pulled her thermal layers and coat from her pack, grimacing at the thought of washing up in the cold air. A small fire and a damp cloth worked well enough—not as effective as the stream, but also not nearly as cold—and she pulled on her warmest clothes as soon as she was done. Meeting Kodiak shortly after she'd arrived in the mountains had been a boon for them both. Kodiak had given birth on a full moon the winter before and lost all but one of her cubs, Moonwish, and fallen into a melancholy her bear-mind could not make sense of. Daine has sensed her grief from across the valley like a low hum—quiet and relentless.

Two days after reaching the pass, when she'd turned off the main road to seek somewhere she could remain undetected while she did the work that was needed, she came across Frostflank, Boneclaw, and Spirit. Their mother was dead—caught in a hunter's trap the lout had not even bothered to come back and to check—and rotting in the summer heat. The cubs were dehydrated and starving. She'd thought Spirit dead, only sensing the faintest flicker of copper when she'd knelt next to the small body and smoothed a hand over her dirty fur. Later, Daine had learned that she'd been the runt of the litter—never even given a name like her siblings. Spirit would come later, when she'd returned from as close to dead as any bear known to the valley. When Daine brought her back from that brink. It had been the hardest healing she'd performed in years, and she could still remember how deeply she'd had to reach—how hard she had to pull—to stop that small flicker of life from slipping through her fingers. When she'd started, she been only vaguely aware of something approaching through the forest. Something that sounded like grief.

When she was done—when the pale little cub raised her head and her siblings came to her—Kodiak was sitting next to them. She was the largest bear she'd ever seen, though she recognized her as a Brown Admiral Bear from her book on mammalian anatomy—thinking of the gift used to bring her joy, but now she pushed it from her mind. Thick brown fur, broad paws, sharp claws, and as tall as Daine's shoulder. A beast by any hunter's reckoning. She had watched the cubs, looking over them one-by-one, and then sniffed and looked at Daine.

They are alone?

Yes. Daine wiped sweat and hair from her face.

May I be their mother?

And then there were six: Daine, Kodiak and the cubs took to the low mountains and denned together. It was a good arrangement. Kodiak and the cubs found family, and no hunter worth his wits would approach the nest of a mothering Admiral Bear which helped Daine stay concealed. The only predator the bears would normally have to worry about were male bears, but Daine made it clear they were to stay away. And now, with the weather turning cold, Daine could always count on plenty of bodies to keep her warm when she returned to their shelter. Still, with hibernation upon them, they were less and less able to fill the absences—dragon, equine, and man—that she worked so hard to ignore.

A quick meal of grain porridge later and it was time to set out. The den was protected by a shift in the rock that concealed the cave, just wide enough for a bear of Kodiak's heft to breach so large enough for Daine to easily walk through, and it was only once she cleared it that she had a view of the world beyond the dwelling. Her footstep sunk with the undeniable crunch of fresh snow and she cursed. It wasn't much—half an inch, maybe—but it was there, blanketing the still forest ahead. The snow line had been moving steadily down the surrounding peaks for weeks, but she'd hoped to have another week or two anyway.

She mostly travelled at night, when she was least likely to meet hunters. Thrice in the first weeks she had: her bow, study of local maps, and ability to call upon the common speech of mountain folk saving her from detection. Life was hard enough in the region that a woman hunting to help her family wasn't unheard of, even if it wasn't considered respectable. One of them, an older man with a scar running through one blinded eye, had looked at her in a way that left no doubt as to what he was thinking. Later, in the dead of the night, she sensed a disturbance in the people and entered the mind of an owl to find him crawling through the underbrush looking for game that walked on two legs. She'd been in no danger. Even if he'd found her, she was more than capable of defending herself.

And yet, so close to mountains that could have been those of Snowsdale, making her home among the people, hunted again. She didn't sleep. There was a crevasse in the roof of the den—you had to sleep in a specific spot to see the sky through it. She'd stared up as the sliver of night sky she could see until she recognized a pattern in the stars: the North Arrow. Numair had taught her to recognize it, among others, though this was one she'd always known the shape of it not the name. It had been the brightest in Snowsdale—especially on cold nights—and she remembered how her Grandda would help her trace the pattern on nights when dark came early. Plenty of time had passed since then, but it was the same sky.

She sighed, crouching to press her hand into the snow and feeling it sting her bare skin. Night had covered her well enough, but fresh bootprints in the snow going to and fro from the mountain foot would draw someones attention sooner or later. Likely sooner—Scanran scouts were moving further and further into the valley every fortnight. She looked to the sky—hazy dusk, a storm that wouldn't pass the peaks casting a shadow across the western ridge—and where the moon hung low: third quarter. She had to go. There would be replenishment gear for her at the supply drop, and while she was alright for food she was out of parchment and twine—both of which she needed to pen her reports and send them to George by bird. She could always rendezvous at the first or third quarter moon, but that required her to coordinate with another agent of the Shadow Service as opposed to just collecting her supplies. More chance to something to go wrong.

A thought occurred to her, unbidden, and it was the same one that infiltrated her thoughts that night she lay staring at the North Arrow. Was Numair looking at the same sky? Was that, at least, something they still shared?

She stood and turned from the thought.

Returning to the den she shed her clothes, shivering in the moment between cloth and fur, and took the shape of a bear. She's lost one set of breeches when she hadn't considered that the form would require her to grow in girth quite as quickly as it did. Still, Kodiak made sure to tell her how scrawny she was and how much she must eat before the Big Cold came. It was dark by the time she entered the forest. Bears were not suited for traveling fasts, but since midnights had become her middays it was the same as being on the her way at first light. With the help of a cat's vision, her way was clear and so she took her time.

As she travelled down towards the valley, she took stock of her allies—the bats had migrated or were in hibernation, which was a shame, but the owls and snow cocks were still of help. One particularly interesting snow leopard had volunteered as well, complaining of boredom and seeking a new challenge he thought she could offer. The news was welcome: not only had there been no further advancement, but most of the scouts her network had been tracking had recalled returned to their camps. The camps in question were a flurry of activity and the images impressed upon her by the owls revealed the obvious efforts of men unprepared for the snow as they hurried to winterize their gear. At least she hadn't been the only one to wake to a surprise.

She'd consult her maps when she returned, but with no other findings to the North she turned her query to the south—to a request she only allowed of herself on these nights, when she went for supplies, lest she lose herself to it completely. The first snowcock of the Southern Proudpeak Flock—Phasianidae—answered, a right she'd used her dominance among the southern flocks to claim early upon Daine's arrival in the pass and first request.

Your nestling is well, she called to Daine as she ruffled her feathers. An image pressed against Daine's mind. When she allowed it in, she saw Kit—not two days prior, scales a sky blue—trailing Sarge through the barracks and chirping at him as they went. Sarge crooned sweet nothings back at her, clearly not understanding whatever had the young dragon so animated but knowing she would never object to being admired so.

Thank you, Daine responded and closed her mind to the image. She just wanted enough to know that Kit was well. If she let herself linger too long, she'd never be able to stop.

The others appear to have all reached their nesting grounds ahead of the Big Cold. Phasianidae continued, pleased with herself at having so much information. The cat-woman and her mate cut it very close.

More images appeared: Jon, Thayet, Onua, and many of her other friends at work and leisure on the Palace grounds. Alanna and George, having left for the Swoop earlier in the season and now returning to the capital. Evin kissing Miri in a deserted stable. Lindhall and Bonedancer in the menagerie.

Two-leggers celebrate the shortest day of the year. We call it Midwinter. They're returning to their nest to spend it together, Daine explained. Everyone seemed well, which was a small solace: with what she'd witnessed of Scanra's movements she had little doubt that this time next year they would be at war and such small, mundane moments would be a wishful thing.

She felt badly, spying on her friends, but she'd been without direct contact with them for nearly half a year and the glimpses helped her sleep when her worried would rather she stay awake.

Daine called a silent thank you to Phasianidae who responded that she had more to relay.

The tall one, she started.

No. Daine faltered, paw slipping against snow-covered leaves. She righted herself and rejected the vision that was offered to her.

But the the filthy beasts of the strange mountain say you care about him more than the others, and that he is lonely. She pushed the images again, and again Daine rejected them.

It had taken some time for Daine to work out the terms used by people so unused to human construction on the scale of the capital, which was amusing since there was a time when she found it unbelievable. Filthy beasts were cats, obviously—that was universal to bird-folk everywhere, but the strange mountain was the palace.

If he is lonely, he is alive. If he is in danger, send word immediately but elsewhise, leave it be.

She cut the connection. Next time she asked she knew she'd have to flatter the bird and smooth over the offense she'd just inflicted.

She was near the crossroads, but kept back from the main road. Tucked back in the undergrowth was an old woodshed, and thirty paces due East of that was a hollow concealed with sight wards. A pack was there, as expected, and she gripped it in her jaws, careful to mind the strength of her bite so as not to damage the contents. Her progress back took longer, even with her mind not occupied elsewhere. Four times she paused to drop the pack and flex her jaw—it would be fair sore in the morning.

The moon was just beginning its descent when she returned, dropping the pack and reclaiming her own form. She had half a mind to curl up next to Kodiak again—who was half-awake with an eye on her cubs—but it was cold enough to convince her to handle what needed doing. Clothes first, a fire second, and then it was time to delve into the supplies.

Moonwish ambled over to her as she settled into a tailor's pose, dropping a rock next to her. For the lizard, she said.

Tkaa, Daine said gently, picking up the rock and placing it next to the pack. And thank you.

Yes. Taka, Moonwish grunted. Give him the rocks so he knows they are good ones and he will visit.

Daine had shown the cubs images of Tkaa and Kit early on, finding it hard to describe them to the little minds, and Moonwish had been rather besotted with the idea of Tkaa since.

Play? Moonwish nudged her and Daine scratched her behind the ears, shaking her head.

Not now, but later.

The cub tumbled back to her siblings and Daine turned to the supplies, organizing as she unpacked. Food, flints, parchment, twine, ink, tea leaves, and—goddess bless—a northern-style coat of thick, warm wool. A second compartment yielded gloves, a cap, and a thick insert for her bedroll. Supplies for a long, cold winter.

Lastly was the letter, as expected. Orders came by bird, sent back when they returned from delivering her reports. These letters were different, with one arriving in each pack and secured by the seal of the Whisper Man. They all bore the same single line of text; the one George had signed off all of his missives with since the first: Come home.

Those by bird were always in George's hand. His first had offered more information—that he feared he'd been amiss in letting her leave so quickly, and that he couldn't make her but would prefer she turned around. That if she declined, but changed her mind later she was to return as soon as she was able and not to wait for permission: it was granted without question. She hadn't responded, but sent the next report with the information she knew was sorely needed. He took it in stride—as far as she could tell—but never missed an opportunity to remind her that there was a place, and friends, waiting for her.

When the season began to change, so did the Baron's tactics. Each supply drop included a letter with the same request, penned in a different hand. She'd recognized Evin's writing in several of them, as well as Onua's, Sarge's, Alanna's, and Miri's. In her personal opinion, George had reached new depths when three packs in a row had turned up a series obviously written by his children. Three hands were missing: Their Majesties and Numair's.

The former meant there was no official order for her to return, and the latter she worked hard not to think about.

She tore the seal to find Alanna's handwriting, and the first letter to deviate from the expected pattern.

Come home.

Please don't make me come get you. I hate the north. It's cold.

We miss you. He misses you.

With a sigh, rubbing a hand over eyes that felt too tired for how much of the night was left, she crumpled the parchment into a ball and fed it to the fire. The remainder of her waking hours were spent organizing her supplies, attending to any mending that needed seeing to, and playing with the cubs. Kodiak ambled stirred twice, when the cubs became to rowdy, to lecture them on why they must not expend too much energy lest their hunger return. Daine knew her presence wasn't helping them become accustomed to what they must do to weather the winter, so she'd taken to using her wild magic to lessen their hunger when she cooked. If she fed them, they would struggle when she was gone.

When the forest began to stir in the softness that came before dawn, she curled up next to Kodiak once more. The cubs followed, filling any empty space around her bedroll. The young ones fell to sleep quickly, but she could tell that Kodiak hovered between waking and sleeping. Daine stared up and found that she was beneath the crevasse. The North Arrow was just barely visible, light bleeding out against the impending dawn. Was Numair—?

No. She turned, feeling Kodiak shift in response.

Will you stay through the Big Cold? She asked.

I don't know, Daine replied. Would it be alright if I did? I'm worried it makes it harder on the little ones.

They will learn, regardless, Kodiak huffed. A little struggle is good for them. They'll be stronger for it.

Two-leggers call that building character, Daine smiled and snuggled deeper into her bedroll. Frostflank grunted and pawed at her leg, dreaming of salmon in a stream.

Two-leggers have strange ways of speaking. But you may stay as long as you would like. If I had not met you, I would not have found my children.

It was a sweet thing you did, taking them in. You came as soon as you sensed them. I hadn't even asked. Daine yawned; perhaps sleep was closing in.

I did not know they were with you.

Daine opened her eyes, brows pulling together. No? Then what were you looking for?

You sounded like I felt. I thought we might be kindred.

Something filled Daine's senses—a far-off hum. Quiet. Relentless. Always there, beneath the surface of it all. Not from physical distance this time, though, but from deep within where she'd pushed it down.

Sunlight was streaming in from above by the time sleep found her.

She began sleeping in shifts since it was all she could manage at one time. Her work was split between half-days and half-nights. Three more journey's to the crossroads for supplies, two blizzards, and the shortening of daylight marked the passage of time before she woke in the middle of the night to a horrendous sound. It was akin to thunder, but if the storm was at your doorstep, and so loud that dust fell from the cave ceiling and the ground beneath them shuddered. The cubs hurried to press close to their mother and Daine sat up, bracing herself.

She called to the people and they answered in a frenzy. An avalanche in the western pass. Settling now, along with the animals panic. The shuddering had stopped and she wiped her face, her hand coming away covered in a fine layer of dust. Kodiak shook, spilling yet more on her and her bedroll. Then her brain, which must have been working without her putting aim to it, connected what needed connecting and she sat up fast. The western pass.

She tumbled from her bedroll, ignoring Boneclaw's protest, and struck the flint—taking twice as many tries as she would need had her hands not been shaking—to light a fire. Turning to her map she took stock of the enemies position, and what she'd learned of the Avalanche. She needed to confirm the information before she could be sure, but some god had sent them a boon.

She worked until noon—taking flight herself in the early hours of the morning to confirm the reports she was receiving—updating the map and her notes. A third of the troops had been lost, with the others trapped until they could clear the snow or it melted. With how late in the season they were, that was unlikely to be a possibility until spring unless they sent a powerful mage—or several—from Hamrkeng. A journey that would take weeks at best.

When dusk arrived, she called to an owl who had already delivered several reports for her. He was big for one of his kind, but quiet and fast and clever. All things she desired in a messenger. Birds carrying letters drew attention. He held out a leg and she attached the map and her letter with a careful knot. To the owl, she impressed the destination—George's study in Corus.

Hold on, she said to him. Biting her lip, she unfastened the letter and crossed out her original sign-off to replace it with a new one.

I'm coming home.

She'd leave in the morning, but with a night's lead on her he may reach Corus first. She'd never managed to develop the stamina of a full-time fowl over long distances anyway.

Her goodbye's with the cubs were hard—as she'd expected—but Kodiak just butted her shoulder with her flank. Good, it is time for you to find whatever it is you've lost.

Daine packed the rocks that Moonwish had given her, not having the heart to tell her she couldn't really take them with her but promising to tell Tkaa about her and meaning it. She left before dawn, taking bear shape once more, so that she could leave her supplies in the hollow. She left them with a rolled parchment bearing the Shadow Service cant that would signal her contact—whoever it had been—that she'd been extracted and to send the supplies to the Corus Hostler. When she first arrived in Corus she'd always wondered why Stefan had to much stuff. Hindsight never failed to amuse her.

With nothing left for her where she stood, she took flight.

The journey had taken three weeks by steed. She was confident she could make it in three days, without overly exerting herself. The nights were the challenge flying with flying so far—the idea of overnighting without her clothes, in the wilderness, by herself was not one she relished. Two especially brutal cold snaps in the recent weeks had helped her in this regard, though, whens he'd worked out how to maintain an animal form while sleeping. It didn't leave her as rested as she'd like, but it kept her warm and comfortable enough.

The first day and night passed in relative ease. She took the form a godwit by day, the large lung capacity easing the strain of so many miles to cover, and denned the night with a family of foxes who welcomed her. On the second evening, sun low on the horizon, she made a mistake.

She had been coasting along the currents, mind seeking ahead for a place to rest for the night, and had not been paying attention to what she flew over—didn't see the hunter, tracking the strange bird that didn't belong there—and wasn't being careful when she followed a downdraft to glide low over the trees. The arrow almost missed her.

Pain seared her wing and she cried out, pulling up in a sharp motion to avoid colliding with a tree. She shrieked again at the pain the motion caused, cursing silently when she realized her noise would just keep the hunter on her trail. She was maintaining altitude, but wasn't sure how much longer she could stay in the air. She pivoted around a thick pine, shifting to a hummingbird and darting from tree to tree—hoping the stealth was worth the damage she might be doing with the rapid beat of her wings—until she was sure she'd lost him and changing once more to something that could put distance between her and the danger. She managed another couple miles on falcon's wings, before landing hard in a small clearing near a stream. Her knees hit the ground, scraping skin, and she collapsed forward, falling sideways into the half-frozen ground when her injured arm gave out.

Daine breathed hard, exhausted and nauseous, until the pain eased enough for her to rise to her knees. The injury wasn't as dire as she'd feared—the panic and shock of it all had been the worst of it by far. She's scar, and a healer to check for infection when she was home wouldn't be the worst thing, but it hadn't hit anything vital. A deep nick, if anything. Staggering to the stream on cold-numbed feet and legs that shook with the fallout of adrenaline she washed the wound and began to cry.

She was tired, and cold, and hungry, and her arm hurt, and, gods, she missed him. Every single moment, she missed him and it just wouldn't stop. It didn't matter if she pushed him from her thoughts, or refused to dwell on it all—he was in her like an ache, and the loss of him wouldn't stop hurting.

And the second thought—the one she'd really been avoiding—finally emerged and she knew it would not let her be. He'd hurt her and it was awful, but then she'd hurt him right back—she must have. She'd up and left without talking to him, without leaving word for him, and then she'd stayed away for half a year with no way for him to reach her. If he had done that to her—

She was going home and that meant facing what they'd done to each other.

When the herd came into the clearing, she was numb. Hands, feet, mind—all of it. They came to rest in the center of the clearing, one stag with a broken antler leading them, and she thought that seemed as good a thing to be as any for the night and joined them.

She slept late, waking to see the herd grazing down the stream in the mid-morning light, but felt rested enough. Her arm was sore but usable and so she flew once more. Heavy winds rose from the east in the afternoon, and chose a cormorant to carry her the last leg and brave the impending squall. It struck ten miles from home, and journey's end by dusk changed to full dark.

Her rooms were nearly as she'd left them. The dress and small clothes were folded in a neat pile on her desk. She pushed her curiosity at that to the side, she had other matters to attend to. Dressed and exhausted and terrified, she braved the storm up Palace Way and into the castle. Even in the quiet of night, it was alarming to see people—to hear them—so close to her. A guard on his rounds through the Mages Wing greeted her and she startled at being addressed. Her voice sounded like gravel when she responded. How long had it been since she stood next to another person? Spoke to one? Too long, surely. Too long to be following it up with that might be the most important conversation of her life.

When he didn't answer her knock she hesitated but decided to let herself in. The wards still recognized her, which was something. His study was empty but the fire burned low. She rapped on the door to his bedchamber softly, then more firmly, then called out, "Numair?"

She turned the knob with a feeling of unease, calling again when she'd pushed the door open enough to spill light into the dark room. What if he wasn't alone?

It was quiet enough. He was probably sleeping. She opened the door completely and the sliver of light spilled across his empty bed. She stepped in, calling again to no answer—again. She'd found him asleep in odd places before, but it usually involved a book and the odd place was usually his study, not his dressing room. He could be somewhere else. With someone else.

She turned back to the study, pulling his bedchamber door behind her. Perhaps it was for the best that she waited until the morning. Got some rest—

Numair stood in the doorway to his study, breathing hard, one hand clutching the frame.

"Daine?"