Teeth and Shadow
The first snow of the season fell the morning the silver wolf was allowed to hunt.
It dusted the Frostclaw forest lightly, just enough to mark every pawstep, every mistake. The elders said this was intentional. A true wolf, they believed, should not fear being seen.
The silver wolf stood at the edge of the clearing with the other young wolves, his muscles tight with anticipation. This was the moment he had waited for—the moment he could finally prove that he belonged.
The hunt leader, a broad-shouldered wolf named Korr, paced before them.
"You hunt as one," Korr said. "No rushing. No glory-chasing. And no mistakes."
His gaze lingered a fraction too long on the silver wolf.
They set out in silence.
The forest smelled sharp and clean, the cold biting at the nose. The silver wolf's senses stretched wide. He noticed things immediately—how the wind shifted near the river, how the birds had gone quiet ahead, how the snow near the pines was disturbed.
"There," he whispered, nodding toward a shallow trail.
Korr flicked an ear but did not look.
"Stay in position."
They moved on.
Moments later, the scent hit them all—deer. Close.
The pack spread out, forming a crescent. The silver wolf took the outer edge, where the shadows were thickest. His heart pounded, not with fear, but focus.
Then it happened.
A young gray wolf lunged too early.
The deer bolted.
Snow exploded as the pack gave chase, but the trail split near the riverbank. Confusion rippled through the group. Korr snarled orders, but the wind carried them away.
The silver wolf slowed.
The snow here was thinner. The scent stronger.
This way.
He followed instinct, slipping through brush and ice, paws silent. Ahead, the deer stumbled on the frozen edge of the river. It was limping—panicked, exhausted.
The silver wolf did not hesitate.
He leapt.
The takedown was clean. Fast. Merciful.
For a moment, there was only his breath and the stillness of the forest.
Then the others arrived.
Korr stared at the fallen deer, then at the silver wolf. The pack murmured—not in praise, but uncertainty.
"You broke formation," Korr said coldly.
"The trail split," the silver wolf replied. "I followed it."
"You acted alone."
The silver wolf looked around, waiting for someone—anyone—to speak for him. No one did.
The deer lay between them, proof of success that somehow felt like a crime.
"We will say the hunt failed because of disobedience," Korr said. "The elders will decide your punishment."
The silver wolf's ears flattened.
"But the prey—"
"Enough."
That night, the pack ate.
The silver wolf did not.
He sat apart while others tore into the meat he had brought down. No one met his eyes. Hunger twisted in his belly, sharper than the cold.
Later, he found his mother at the den.
"You did well," she said softly, licking the frost from his fur. "Too well, perhaps."
"I followed the rules," he said, confusion heavy in his voice. "Why does that matter less than fear?"
She was quiet for a long moment.
"Because," she said gently, "some wolves would rather doubt you than doubt themselves."
He lay beside her, staring at the den wall, the sounds of the pack distant and dull.
That night, he dreamed again.
But this time, the wolves of light did not run beside him.
They watched.