Chapter 1
The wind does not merely blow tonight; it howls. It is a guttural, primal sound that strikes with calculated malice against the wooden walls of my small cabin—a structure that, while usually serving as my sanctuary and the place where the soft whisper of the pines lulls me into a peaceful slumber, feels fragile tonight, almost utterly defenseless. There is something lurking within the frequency of that whistling air that isn't normal; it feels like an omen, a dark prophecy traveling down from the highest, jagged peaks. Winter in these mountains knows no mercy; it is a stern, unyielding judge that remains deaf to pleas for leniency, and unfortunately, my bank account currently shares that same implacable coldness.
I stand motionless in the kitchen, my gaze anchored to the rent receipts resting upon the worn wooden table. They are cold slips of paper, silent death sentences for my stability. Having been fired from the town's diner only two days ago, that small heap of crumpled bills tucked away in the drawer is the very last of what I have left to my name. I will not cry. I forbid myself the luxury of tears. Because if I start now, I don't know if I'll ever be able to stop... and right now, I cannot afford to break.
"Tomorrow will be another day, Cassandra," I whisper to myself, my voice nothing more than a fragile thread of sound lost in the vast emptiness of the room. I pull my old wool robe tighter around my body, desperately seeking a warmth that seems to be escaping through the invisible cracks in the window frames. "Tomorrow, you'll find something. Tomorrow, you won't be afraid. You'll find a way to keep going, just like you always do."
Just as I reach out to flick the kitchen light switch and retreat into the perceived safety of the shadows in my bedroom, a sound—distinctly different from the wind—slices through the air. It isn't the snap of a frozen branch or the whistle of air through the rocks. It is a wail. A lament.
I freeze mid-motion. My heart executes a violent thud against my ribs, paralyzing my breath. Then, it happens again: a hoarse, deep crackling sound, heavy with an agony so dense it curdles my blood far more effectively than the freezing air seeping under the door. It is coming from the back, from that small clearing where my garden surrenders to the impenetrable and voracious darkness of the national forest.
My survival instinct, which is usually quite loud and opinionated, begins to scream at me. Turn around, Cassandra. Walk to your room, double-lock the door, crawl under the heavy blankets, and do not come out until the sun is high in the sky. But there is something in that sound—a vulnerability that feels almost human—that tethers my feet and pulls me in the opposite direction. With trembling hands that can barely grip the cold plastic, I grab the flashlight from the side table. Something deep inside me whispers that opening that door is a mistake. That there are things out there that were never meant to be found.
Even so... I turn the doorknob of the back door and push it open.
The porch light is on, but its glow is pathetic and weak, barely able to reclaim a few feet of the yard before being swallowed whole by the blackness. The moment I step outside, the snow strikes my face like a thousand crystal needles. The blizzard is fierce, blinding. I aim the beam of the flashlight toward the exterior; the light dances erratically over the white shroud, revealing the frantic, chaotic waltz of the snowflakes, until it finally snags on something that does not belong in the landscape.
You shouldn't be out here, Cassandra. This is the single stupidest thing you have ever done in your life. Turn back right now. That is what a sensible woman would do—someone with a grain of logic left in her head. But, as I have long since accepted that sensibility is not my primary virtue, I continue to take heavy steps forward.
At first, what I see looks like a deformed rock, caked in mud and the organic debris of the forest floor. However, as the beam of light stabilizes, I notice a rhythmic, labored movement. A flank rises and falls with agonizing difficulty. It is a living being.
But it doesn't feel like one. There is something about its presence... something heavy, unsettling, that makes my skin crawl without me knowing exactly why.
Based on the silhouette, it is clearly an animal, but the real question that freezes my soul is: what kind of animal is massive enough to be mistaken for a boulder?
Sinking up to my knees in the fresh powder, ignoring how my feet go numb instantly as they lose all sensation, I draw closer.
"Hello?" My voice cracks, immediately devoured by the roar of the forest.
When I am only a few yards away, reality hits me with the force of a physical blow. It isn't a rock, nor is it a bear or any of the predators that usually stalk these peaks. It's a dog. Or at least, it has the form of one, though its dimensions are surreal, almost mythic. It is—or would be—a pristine white, were it not soaked in mud and a red liquid so dark it looks like ink under the artificial glare of my flashlight. It is an enormous beast, majestic and, despite its broken state, utterly terrifying. It lies on its side, and the snow surrounding it is no longer white; it is a spreading crimson lake.
"Oh, my God... poor thing, what happened to you?" My breath escapes in a thick cloud of vapor that dissipates the moment it hits the gale.
I move closer, and the scent hits me like a punch to the gut: iron, damp earth, and the unmistakable, cloying fragrance of approaching death. Seeing the wound up close makes my stomach do a violent somersault. It is a diagonal gash, deep and clean, running from the shoulder all the way down the chest. It looks as if a giant blade or a nightmare's claw had attempted to rend the creature in two. The flesh is torn wide open, exposing living tissue that pulses with a weakness that shears my heart.
A wave of nausea washes over me. I have always had an unbearable aversion to blood; a simple nick from a kitchen knife turns me pale and forces me to sit down to avoid fainting. Now, witnessing this magnitude of carnage on this poor animal makes the world begin to spin on its axis.
Leave, Cassandra. Go inside and lock the door. It's going to die anyway; there is nothing you can do for it, my subconscious hisses. Have I mentioned that my inner voice can be a heartless bitch? Many times I have listened to her just to avoid trouble, and today, for a heartbeat, I am on the verge of obeying.
But just as my boots begin to pivot to flee... the dog opens an eye.