Blood on Snow
The snow drank blood like it had never known anything sweeter.
It glittered crimson beneath the pale light of the full moon, soaking into the once-pristine blanket that covered the Silverfang territory. Aria stood barefoot at the edge of the clearing, her breathing shallow, her heartbeat thunderous. Her pale skin was smeared with bruises and frost. Her silver hair hung damp and tangled around her shoulders. And in the middle of the clearing—his throat torn out—lay her brother.
Dain.
Alpha-born. First in line. Dead.
And they said it was her fault.
She didn’t scream. She didn’t beg. She didn’t plead to her father, the great Alpha Thorne of the Silverfangs. She’d learned long ago that the Silverfangs respected strength, not sorrow. Still, when her father’s amber eyes turned cold and judgmental, when the pack began to circle her like vultures sensing weakness, she felt a pain deeper than any wound.
“You will bear the mark,” her father had said, his voice stripped of all warmth. “For murder. For betrayal. For turning your wolf on your blood.”
“I didn’t—”
“The council has spoken,” he snapped. “Your cries of innocence mean nothing when your brother’s blood is on your hands. You are no longer one of us.”
The branding iron came down like a blade. Burned into her shoulder was the symbol of exile—a crescent moon, slashed through the center. A mark that would tell every pack she was cursed, untrusted, untouchable.
The pain had stolen her voice. But not her fury.
They killed him, she thought now, her feet crunching over the crusted snow as she stumbled deeper into the forest. They set me up. Someone did this, and they made it look like I was the monster.
Her wolf stirred restlessly beneath her skin. She hadn’t shifted since the banishment. Her beast was wild now, barely leashed, aching to break free—to run, to hunt, to kill.
But she was alone. And exhaustion clawed at her limbs.
Night closed in like a predator. The forest was still, but she wasn’t fooled. She could hear movement—light paws padding in the distance. Rogues. They’d scented her blood. The scent of an exiled she-wolf was practically a siren song to the lawless ones.
She pressed her back to the bark of a pine, chest heaving.
Think. Survive.
The snow whispered again, a sigh that drifted between the trees like a ghost’s breath. Moonlight spilled through the branches in pale ribbons, casting the forest in silver and shadow.
Somewhere far behind her, a wolf howled.
She closed her eyes.
“I won’t die out here,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I will live. I will find the truth. And I will come back for them all.”
Her hands curled into fists. The mark on her shoulder burned like fire.
Then—slowly, painfully—she shifted. Bone and muscle reformed, fur rippled across her spine. She dropped to all fours, her breath steaming in the air. Her wolf’s silver coat was as pale as moonlight, her eyes still burning blue with rage.
And she ran.
