Bea

The knife fits my hand like it always has—weight balanced, edge honest. I slide it under the hide and let muscle memory take over. The deer is still warm, steam ghosting up into the cold air, blood dark against the packed dirt of the clearing. Around me, the new team moves in a careful rhythm: hooks clinking, hides peeled back, bones sawed clean. No wasted motion. No wasted meat.

Good.

My wolf hums low in my chest, a steady thrum of approval. Clean work. Respect the kill.

“I know,” I murmur under my breath, angling the blade just so. “I always do.”

I focus on the line where hide...