Slowly the colors returned. The wolf’s body steamed in front of her. Its fur was chalky brown, and the blood splattering the snow was the most beautiful red she’d ever seen. A sob choked out of her. How had she forgotten the vibrancy of the forest’s green, the way it filled her mouth with the taste of sunlight, the blue of a northern summer sky, so bright it nearly burned? She pried the wolf’s jaws open, marveling at salmon gums, ivory fangs, a yellow-spotted tongue. If colors were wine, she’d have gathered their hues in her palms and drunk until she burst.

But instead she’d take her prize.

Ranka hummed as she worked, sawing through bone. Fangwolf incisors were worth their weight in gold to the humans who dared trek this far north for trade—but they’d make a better gift to Yeva, who could trade them for some precious human good. A scarf, a dress, maybe one of those glitzy necklaces crows always tried to steal.

Ranka’s eyes flicked to her wrist, to the faded scrap of leather and sun-bleached beads that circled it; Yeva wore its twin. She’d woven it for Ranka five years ago.

Forget her, Yeva had pleaded. For all of us.

Ranka had certainly tried.

The birds remained silent. The death-drunk feeling swirled through Ranka, rendering her warm and off-balance as she pocketed the fangs. Ranka wiped her hands clean and paused, regarding the wolf with a clear head for the first time.

The wounds were all wrong; the slashes along its flanks were long, jagged lines—but the bite marks on its neck were oval and messy. As though they’d come from blunt teeth.

Ranka breathed in—and gagged.

The scent of rot was overpowering. Had it gotten worse? Unless her nose was lying to her, the rotten scent wasn’t coming from the wolf—it was coming from the trees. It was coming from behind her.

And behind her, something moaned.

Slowly, Ranka turned.

A person swayed at the clearing’s edge.

“Hello?”

A familiar, earthy scent curled in the air. A witch. Her fingernails were coal black, ending in fine, sharp points. Ranka would have wagered her life that this witch’s eyes were a solid, milky white.

“You’re a blood-witch,” Ranka breathed. “I… I thought I was the only one left. Where have you been? I have so many questions; I thought I was alone—I thought—”

Ranka looked closer and froze.

The witch’s nails dimmed and returned to blunt edges—and then darkened again, the edges morphing to fine points once more. The witch’s power was… flickering. That wasn’t right. Blood-magic didn’t flicker. It rose and faded only once a life had been taken. But this witch seemed caught in a cycle, her power sputtering in and out like a candle that wouldn’t stay lit.