Topher hated winter. He always had. The season sank its teeth into his paws and gnawed relentlessly, every step on frozen ground sending cold needles into his bones. Hunger clung to him like a second skin, a dull ache that had only deepened as the days dragged on. No matter how many layers he wrapped around himself, the wind still sliced through and left him raw, brittle, and worn thin.

The group had managed to claim a shallow den—a hollow barely big enough for all of them to huddle together against the storms. It had offered them shelter, but not sustenance. Days spent burrowed in shadows meant their bellies had grown hollow, and now hunger pressed hard enough to drive them back into the unforgiving white world.

So Topher went, along with a few others, trudging through drifts that seemed to swallow sound itself. He had wandered further than the rest, farther than was wise, his breath rising in ragged clouds that vanished into the pale sky. His fingers, stiff and clumsy with cold, worked at an evergreen branch, tugging at whatever needles and scraps might pass for food. The air stung his lungs with each breath, leaving his throat raw and burning. Still, it was worth it, he told himself. If he brought back enough, maybe it would quiet the gnawing emptiness in everyone’s stomachs.

But the illusion of purpose shattered in an instant. The wind shifted—subtle at first, then sharp. His nose filled with a scent that froze him more thoroughly than the winter ever could. Predator. Close. Too close.

His ears snapped upright, swiveling to catch the faintest tremor of sound in the silence. The world around him seemed to shrink, every rustle and creak magnified. Fear slid like ice into his gut, rooting him in place, and he knew with bone-deep certainty: something was watching him.