Reia followed the excruciating sound, the baying growing louder as she jogged past glowing tents. Past startled faces that dared move into her rampaging path. The louder the sound got, the more her stomach twisted.

But it wasn't just the dogs. From a side glance she noticed that even the mules were shifting restlessly in the pen, their eyes and ears moving in fits and starts. She jerked to a halt, disturbed by their behavior. But when she tried to listen, to scour the dark for the unseen menace they so clearly sensed, all she could hear was the poor, keening dog. She hurried off again. The hunters and trackers had reported no warg sightings. No wolves. So, other than the heartbreaking howl of the dog, what was disturbing the mules?

On the fringe of the camp, she spotted the dog gnawing and thrashing at her leash, the whites of its eyes stark in the night. The other three dogs were whining pitifully nearby.

"What in Maeda's name...?" Reia skidded to a halt beside the dog, her heart lodging in her throat at the sight of all the blood in the snow and matted in the fur of its hindquarters. Reia's eyes swerved around the darkness, looking for any sign of the pups. The dog had whelped, the blood and the shrunken size of its abdomen told her that much. But there was no sign of puppies. No wolf tracks, either. Only boot prints heading back into camp. And then she saw him, the tracker, and her blood froze. Her lungs flooded with terror so thick she couldn't breath.

He was silhouetted against the light of a towering camp fire, holding a newborn pup over a bucket of water. Time hurtled to a standstill, jerking her backward so that she was ten years old again. Her heart plummeted into her gut, slamming down so hard she felt her legs buckle. "No! Please!" But the words lost their form and strength in the force of suffocating darkness, her lungs flooding. Gripped by horror, she watched the tracker lower the newborn into the bucket, the intention clear.

A haze of red billowed through her skull. She plowed toward them, a haunted sound bursting from her throat. For the space of a horrifying moment, it was her in the bucket. It was her head forced below the water, lungs stinging. Her eyes dimming as water roared in her ears, the sound of her own screams a drowning echo.

Reia was like an animal, feral with terror and hate. She didn't know how she got to the tracker or what she'd done to him to release the dog, but when the red fog receded from her glare, the man was lying in the snow with a mouthful of blood, his nose bent sideways.

"What the fuck!" He shrieked, staunching the blood with his mitts.

But she barely heard him, she was staring down at the shivering pup in her hands, yowling for its mother. Swallowing her terror, she stowed the cold, little body in her coat and backed away from the tracker. She was shaking all over, stricken with poisoned memories and blinding rage.

His blood stained the ground like a macabre river. Chest heaving, she watched the rill of blood cut a pathway through the snow like a snake. Down the slope it went, drawing her eye into a trance. Her gaze followed to where the blood pooled against the thick roots of a large rowan. And it was then she noticed the strange plant that'd wrapped itself around the bole of the rowan like a black vine mantled in shadow. A vine as foreign to her as the outland itself. She blinked, for a moment ignoring the tracker still bleeding, still screaming at her.

She found herself transfixed, staring at the giant...pansy? A fucking pansy with a sinister, white face. Her skin prickled the way its face angled toward the camp, as though watching them. The black pattern at the center of its petals stood out like an ink stain, which gave the face a lurid glare and gaping mouth.

"Are you fucking mad?!" The tracker's voice snapped her from her trance. "You broke my nose!"

Her eyes jerked toward him, narrowing to slits, the creepy pansy forgotten. She wasn't about to let that bloody mouth spit another insult. Prowling forward, she drew her sword. Her arm was surprisingly steady as she raised the tip to the man's bobbing throat, a terrifying calm settling in her chest. "Speak to me like that again and I'll feed your tongue to the dogs, understand?" She held his glare.

"Yes, Prefect," he said between clenched teeth.

"What's going on here?" Roanstrike stormed onto the scene, his armor looking like it'd been hastily donned.

Reia withdrew her sword from the man's throat. "He was trying to drown the puppy." Her eyes swung to the empty bucket lying toppled in the snow. "Where are the others?" she asked him in seething tones, ignoring the way his hateful look made her skin crawl.

"Others?" Roanstrike's head was swiveling between Reia and the tracker who was still spitting blood.

"The other puppies!" She sheathed her sword, holding the small body tight against her with the other arm, careful not to smother it. "The brute was..." She sucked in a breath, her mouth going dry. Licking her wind-torn lips, she tried again. "He was trying to drown this one." She glanced down at the shivering pup. "Did you kill the others?" By the gods, she'd run him through if so.

With a mouthful of loose teeth, he muttered something about there being no litter. Only one pup.

Roanstrike's glare was fixed to the writhing dog in her coat.

"It was a kindness," the tracker growled, spitting blood. "A quick death."

The other tracker was wearing a black scowl, too, but he had the good sense to hold his tongue.

She felt her rage boil up all over again, her mouth opening to deliver a scathing retort.

But Roanstrike forestalled her with a nod of agreement that snuffed her indignation like a bucket of ice. "It is a kindness, Prefect. The dog won't survive out here." He stepped closer, holding out his large, rough hand for the pup. "Better that it's dealt with swiftly than allowed to suffer. The outland is no place for soft, wee things." The way his eyes bored into her, reproachfully, she was left in no doubt that he thought her no better than the puppy—soft and wee.

But Reia stepped back, drawing herself up to her full height. And she hugged the dog to her breast, for some inexplicable reason, unable to let it go. She'd saved its life, and now she felt the threads of her own life knitting tight with the dog's fate. "I told you," she bit out, "the dam never should've been allowed to whelp out here in the first place." Her eyes flew around the camp, keeping the bleeding tracker in her sight at all times, and noticed that she'd attracted far too much attention. Humiliation and anger warred in her, heating her neck. She glanced down at the little snout, half hidden, rooting hungrily against her. "It needs nursing, not drowning!"

The tracker dragged his sleeve against his sodden nose, glaring down at the red stain. "It's a mongrel—" pointing at the pup "—something's not right with it!"

"You bastard!" Her rage was choking her. Her hand slid back over her hilt, but Roanstrike stepped between her and the tracker. She had a small dose of trollbane in her little stockpile of poisons and the thought of slipping some the precious toxin into the bastard's stew was becoming very tempting. It would liquify his insides in seconds—a drowning of a more insidious kind, from the inside out, she thought darkly. Her look must've conveyed some of this to him, for he shrank back behind Roanstrike.

"Let him have the dog back," said Roanstrike, his tone careful. "It's kinder to kill it quickly than let the cold prolong its death. It cannot survive out here."

"No," she growled.

"You've a soft heart, Prefect. A woman's heart, but trust us to know—"

"Return to your tent, Captain," she commanded, his words lancing old wounds. There it was again—she was lesser than he, irrational, because she was soft. A woman. But she knew it was more to do with her nature than her sex. It was ingrained in her bones—the need to preserve and understand life. How dare they presume it a weakness! Fuck the lot of them! She wasn't weak! Or soft. She'd heard that all her life from Corfen and Rafen, but she'd lick Hekki's arse before she tolerated the flea-pizzled notions of a subordinate and sodding miscreant who was clearly whelped in a sewer ditch. She made a point of eyeing the captain's slipshod appearance. "You're an officer in the King's Guard, Roanstrike. Remember that the next time you rush out of your tent with your trews on backward." She turned in a full circle, ignoring the heated looks at her back, and addressed all those that'd come to gawk. "We've a long day tomorrow. Get to your bedrolls if you're not on watch." Without another word to Roanstrike, she took her leave.

She could feel the glares prickling her spine all the way back to her tent, but she forced her legs to keep a sedate pace. But once she ducked inside her tent, her hand began to shake. She fastened the toggles as fast as she could. Her mouth was dry and blood was crashing in her ears so loud it took a moment to realize the pup was whining.

She pulled the dog out of her warm coat, looking it over carefully for the first time. A little male, eyes glazed an unseeing gray, its wrinkled coat wet with black curls. Poor thing was freezing and hungry. She moved closer to the fire, bundling him up in a fur from her bedroll. She cursed the tracker again. And then her anger turned inward. How was she to take care of a puppy? She'd never been allowed a pet and knew nothing about being a mother. She swallowed, flinching at the thought that she was only dooming the dog to a slow and painful death. She sank her teeth into her lip, trying to think.

Her eye shifted to her discarded dinner tray and the cold mule's milk still untouched. She reached for the tin mug and propped it carefully at the edge of the fire to heat it up. A few drops of water went into the mug, too. She'd need to refill her waterskins with snow before she went to bed and leave them close by the fire to melt. She also needed that spindle fern now more than ever. So she set to work.

Into the gourd-shaped pot she placed the melted water from her waterskin, already distilled. She'd refilled the waterskin with snow throughout the day and, thirsty as she was, there was only just enough to use for the spindle fern tonic. With a quick glance at the pup, she placed the herb into the perforated neck before securing it to the pot, twisting it until it was snug but not too tight. The dome with its spout went on next. Afterwards, she placed the pot over the still-struggling fire, careful of the mug of heating milk. She worked fast, blowing and coaxing it with more kindling. She carefully packed the snow she'd collected with her phlegmy stew dish around the worm tube that was fed from the spout. Lastly, she set the receiver in place to catch the precious condensate.

The sound of boiling reached her ear like a sweet refrain. She leaned in, her mind's eye picturing the leaves shivering in its hot bath. The small yellow petals would be unfurling like a soft stretch, she thought, the pigment brightening in the shock of heat. Footsteps outside her tent jolted her from her wonderment and she spun around to glare at the tent flap, ready to bark a "Fuck off!" at whoever might dare to enter. But the footsteps continued past, retreating, whispers shifting to mocking laughter.

Taking a deep breath, she turned back to the fire and the copper still. The snow was melting fast around the worm. Her heart quickened and she leaned even closer, like a child watching toffee bubble on the stove. Finally, drops began to form at the tail end of the worm, the sound like liquid gold as they dripped into the receiver. As expected, the herb yielded very little distillate. Just a thin layer of dense oil settling like a coin below the cloudy water.

With her bottom lip snagged between her teeth, she carefully separated the oil, storing it in a little glass vile. The cloudy water went into a larger vessel, not as potent yet certainly good enough for tea. Both were corked and then she scribbled on the labels and tied them neatly around the glass necks. She held the green oil up to the firelight, fascinated by the healing emerald glow.

She brushed a gentle finger over the dog's wrinkled brow, her heart constricting with empathy. She had a few pigeon eggs and some other treats she'd brought with her from home. She glanced uncertainly toward her food pack. Finally, she sighed. She didn't have much, but what she did have was his now, too.

She dragged her food pack closer and reached in for the carefully bundled eggs. Taking one from the clutch, she placed it into her mortar and pestle and began to grind up the egg, speckled shell and all, until it was like a smooth paste. Then she removed the milk from the brazier, testing it with her finger so that it wasn't too warm.

Then she reached for the fresh batch of spindle fern oil. It would be hard to replace after it was all gone, but, she reminded herself again, the pup needed this more than she did. So a potent drop of that went into the milk, too, then she added the egg paste.

Her brow furrowed. The color was a bit unappetizing, but it was now nutrient dense and, hopefully, it would be as good as mother's milk. She took an old glove and, with the tip of her knife, punctured the leather at the thumb of the glove. It was watertight and would hold the milk like a nipple.

After a few false starts, the dog took to the makeshift, leather nipple. She felt her cheeks begin to ache and was surprised to realize she was smiling.

When he was done drinking, she cupped his small head in her palm, stroking his warm fur with gentle fingers. "You've a little bit of basil magic in you, my son. You made me smile, and I thought I'd forgotten how." Basil. It suited him.

He nuzzled closer, his heat and sweet scent melting the thick hoarfrost around her heart. His peaceful little snores infused her with a gentle, unexpected happiness. With love. It jolted her a moment, the force of it so humbling and frightening that a tear stole down her cheek.

"You'll grow as large as a wolf, Basil." She nodded as though her words would make it so. He sort of looked like a wolf, truth be told. She sniffed quietly, thumb stroking his already large paws. "And when you do, I'll let you eat the miserable cur that tried to drown you."

Though she was bone-weary, and worried she might roll onto him, she knew the pup needed skin-to-skin contact. So she settled him in the crook of her neck and drew the furs around them. The fire hissed and grumbled as she drifted to sleep.

But some time later, her eyes sprang wide and she groped around to find the missing pup curled against her stomach. The creeping chill had long since snuffed the embers. But she was too cold and tired to wage war on those damp logs. Closing her eyes, she tried to find sleep again. Nearby, the watch went their rounds, boots trudging loudly in the frozen silence.

The murmur of voices cut through the wind, the men outside unaware she could hear them.

"The Captain'll keep a tight rein," said one voice in low tones. "Don't have to worry about him being on the rag every month. Heard the bitch broke Fagan's fucking nose."

"Aye," grumbled the second voice, "but we don't got Cap'n for long—he'll be carting the first load of ore back in a fortnight. We're fucked when he leaves."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and the bitch dies of dysentery."

"Or wargs." They both chuckled and moved past her inconspicuous tent. "Fuck me it's cold—should've been an onion farmer in South Gate." Whatever else was said, drowned in the wind.

But she'd heard enough.

Reia's heart slammed against her ribs, her eyes burning behind her lids. The murmurs drifted into silence once more. But there would be no more sleep for her. Not tonight.

If she was to survive out here, she'd have to grow eyes in the back of her head. Her men weren't the only ones who wished her dead. She could still feel the scratch of preternatural eyes raising her hackles.

Taunting her every moment—warning her of death's creeping shadow.