*Lazlo*

The snow hushes the sounds of the trees, wind, and even my thoughts. All I hear is the thrum of blood in my ears and the rhythmic beat of paws across the forest floor. The elk herd is close. I can taste them on the back of my tongue, rich, wild and warm.

I press forward through the Virechant woods, low to the ground, keeping downwind. Roanoke moves a few strides ahead, his silver-gray coat ghosting between the trees. Soren is behind us, lumbering, too loud as usual, cracking the frozen underbrush with every step. I should have left him behind.

The elk’s trail bends east toward a stream....