The cold had teeth this winter.

It bit through fur, through skin, through bone. Its fangs even pierced the layered safety of the Warren itself. In the upper tunnels, the air nips at their skin and burns in their lungs. Most of the Warrenfolk have retreated to the deeper burrows to escape the cruel kiss of winter.

Not Yulen.

Someone has to stay close to the surface. Someone has to listen and watch and smell for potential predators.

As chief, that duty falls on him.

Though, he supposes he would have taken on the task regardless of whether he held the title.

It's only during the winter months when Yulen feels he is of value to the Warren, when he is finally worthy of his title.

Born with albinism—white fur and haunting red eyes—Yulen shouldn’t have lived. Not this long. Most albino Warrenfolk didn’t survive long enough to reach adulthood. Their specie’s survival relied on stillness. On blending in. He lacked that critical ability, with fur as pale as snow in a vibrant world of browns and greens.

Only when winter came and drained the world of color, when snow buried the world in pristine white, did his curse become something useful.

The snow, however, did not work in the other Warrenfolk’s favor.

The others disliked staying above ground for too long; surface runs had grown shorter and shorter with each passing day. The cold was harsh, yes, but predators were the real threat.

Snow muted sounds, concealed tracks, hid predators until their teeth were already around your neck. And, without white fur to vanish into the drifts, the rest were more vulnerable than ever.

So Yulen went out instead. Stayed out longer. Ventured out farther.

Growing up with a condition like his—and surviving with it—had sharpened his instincts into a well-honed blade. He noticed shifts in the winds, unfamiliar scents, and warning signs long before any of the others did.

And today, he'd noticed something amiss.

Blood in the air. Pungent enough to infiltrate the Warren's tunnels.

In most cases, Yulen would ignore it. Blood always meant trouble one way or another. Something was wounded; something was bleeding. If a predator wasn't already in the area, then one would be soon.

He can't ignore this though. There's a peculiar scent mingling with the iron-a certain sweetness, reminiscent of the Warrenfolk, yet with distinct, unfamiliar wildness to it.

He has to be sure it isn't one of his.

Yulen pads soundlessly through the snow, ears angled against the cutting wind, every muscle coiled, ready to spring away at the first hint of danger. The world is quiet. Empty. Muffled by the thick blanket of white that continues to grow day by day. He follows the scent trail until it transitions into a physical one: bright, red drops staining the pristine snow in an erratic line.

He pursues it until he comes across something-no, someone-huddled in the snow.

He freezes in shock. Forgets how to breathe. Stares at you like you're some kind of illusion, for fear that if he so much as blinks, that delicate, beautiful dream, will be shattered.

White fur.

You, a haggard lump in the snow, have white fur. Just like him. Fur that is luminous and seamless with the snow, and if not for the blood trail leading right to your curled-up form, he would have missed you entirely.

He continues to stare, utterly perplexed. Your scent's different, lacking the overlapping scents of the Warrenfolk. Which suggests no colony. No family. No warren. No shelter.

Were you alone?

His eyes drift to the crimson petals that bloom in the snow around your leg, which, he notes, is protectively tucked against your body.

"You are injured," he utters in the gentlest tone he can manage. He doesn't want to scare you away. Not when he's discovered someone just like him. Someone who might finally understand him.

"Come. With me. You shouldn't be out here."

For once, the endless expanse of snow does not feel entirely empty. For once, he does not feel entirely alone.