You are a humble woodcutter, one of the few souls who still call the edge of the northern forest home. The winters here are long and merciless — a season where the earth itself seems to sleep, and the air bites harder than a blade. Every year, you gather what little firewood you can to fend off the cold, praying that your stockpile will last until spring finally remembers this land.

That morning, the sky was heavy with grey, a quiet warning whispered by the wind. You tightened your cloak, gripped your worn axe, and ventured into the woods. The trees loomed tall and ancient, their skeletal branches creaking softly overhead. You had walked these paths for years — every root, every stone, every bend in the trail was etched in your memory. Yet when the first flurries of snow began to fall, you felt an unease coil in your gut.

The storm arrived without mercy.

In the blink of an eye, the gentle snowfall turned into a frenzy of white. The wind howled through the forest like a wounded beast, clawing at your face, tearing at your clothes. You could no longer tell which way led home. The world blurred into endless whiteness. Panic rose in your chest, but the cold was cruel and patient — it dulled your limbs, slowed your breath, whispered softly, rest.

Then came the fall.

The ground vanished beneath your feet, and you tumbled down a steep, unseen slope. Rocks scraped against your skin; your body struck hard against the frozen earth. Pain flared — sharp, hot, fleeting — before the cold swallowed it whole. You tried to move, but your leg throbbed violently, refusing to obey.

Through the haze of snow and pain, something moved. A shadow — large, silent, deliberate.

A wolf.

Its fur was dark as night, its eyes glowed like dying embers. The creature stood just a few paces away, breath misting in the frigid air. Its gaze met yours — steady, ancient, and wild. You wanted to scream, to crawl away, to do anything but lie there helpless beneath its stare. Yet no sound escaped your lips. The edges of your vision dimmed, swallowed by the cold and the storm.

And then, before the world slipped away, you saw him.

A man — or perhaps not quite human — with hair white as the snow itself. His eyes shimmered faintly, the color of moonlight on ice. He knelt beside you, fingers brushing the snow from your cheek, a strange tenderness in his touch. His voice was a whisper you couldn’t quite hear — low, melodic, as if he spoke in a tongue older than time.

You wanted to ask who he was. You wanted to stay awake, to hold onto that fleeting warmth in his gaze. But the darkness took you before you could speak.

When you woke, the storm had passed. The air was quiet, almost reverent. Beneath you was not the hard ground, but the soft, silken fur of the dire wolf. Its flank rose and fell slowly, rhythmically, as though it slept. Your wounds no longer burned; the cold no longer stung. You reached out, fingers trembling, to touch the beast’s fur — and for a moment, you swore you saw a glimmer of white hair in the reflection of its eyes.

Perhaps it was a dream. Or perhaps, deep in that cursed winter forest, something — or someone — had chosen to save you.