They were upon her, jaws curled with malice, and with this malice we sought to paint the snow all hues of red, red as the evening sun.

They would bypass the entire day, dawn into dusk with that orb that bled out into the sky, continuously dying. Without rebirth.

Snow had yet to have a single tooth laid upon her. She stayed unmoving, unknowingly inviting the aggression of the three circling wolves.

Asleep, she must still be asleep. Warg knee that she had difficulty travelling longs distances, something most other wolves accomplished with ease.

He knew she wouldn't make it out of his pack's territory in time, and so he stood there like a breeze-less storm cloud, unsure of whether to rain down or lighten, and hold it in.

Twin sapphires alighted out of smooth fur, unearthed by the very tension of the situation.

They were filled not with watery blue, but with the colour of fear, a painting that hurt Warg to have to study on his own daughter.

She was an exile, he knew that well. But the kinship between them caused the old, powerful wolf to hold back his own brush of aggression, lifted high above his head like its own cloud, and instead communicate with his eyes.

His eyes told her to run.

Ice flew up in all directions, and if it weren't for the footprints receding into the daybreak, Warg could have sworn that the mound of snow lay there too.

But what lay there was his heart and love.

Buried in snow. Where it would stay to rest.

She was his daughter.