"What color is that?... red? Since when was snow red....no, I forgot, I'm about to die. Lucky me."
Fenrik's breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as he stumbled through the snow-covered forest. Each step left a bloody footprint behind, his bare feet torn and frostbitten from hours of running. The icy wind howled through the towering pines, carrying with it the distant echoes of howls and shouts. They were still following him.
His hand pressed tightly against the gash on his side, trying to stem the flow of blood. The once-crimson cloak draped over his shoulders was now nothing more than a tattered, frozen rag. His vision swam, and his wolf-kin senses—heightened hearing, sharp vision—had long dulled, overtaken by exhaustion and blood loss.
Fenrik tripped on an exposed root, sprawling face-first into the snow. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping. He forced himself up, his hands sinking into the icy powder, leaving smears of red as he clawed forward. His pursuers weren't far now; he could hear their voices echoing through the woods.
"Don't stop," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse and barely audible. "Don't stop. Not yet."
The terrain grew steeper as he reached the base of the mountain. Jagged rocks jutted out from the snow, and the path became more treacherous with each step. His legs screamed in protest, and his body felt like it was shutting down. Still, he climbed. One hand after the other, dragging himself up the icy slope. The cold was numbing, but the pain was his anchor.
Suddenly, the crunch of snow behind him grew louder. Panic surged through him as he looked over his shoulder. Shadows moved between the trees. They were closer than he thought. Too close.
A surge of adrenaline forced him to move faster, though every step sent a fresh wave of agony through his body. His foot slipped on an icy patch, and he slid down several feet, his side scraping against the jagged rocks. He bit down a scream, his teeth chattering from the cold.
"I'm not dying here," he growled through clenched teeth. "Not like this."
Finally, he reached a narrow ledge that offered a brief reprieve. He collapsed against the cold stone, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The howls and voices had faded, but he knew they wouldn't give up so easily. His blood trail was an open invitation.
The faint glow of the moon illuminated the path ahead—a dark, gaping cave nestled within the mountainside. It was his only option. Summoning the last reserves of his strength, Fenrik pushed himself to his feet and staggered toward the cave.
Inside, the air was damp and cold, but it shielded him from the relentless wind. He collapsed onto the rocky floor, his body trembling violently. His head spun, and his vision blurred as darkness crept in at the edges. He didn't have much time left.
His thoughts drifted as he lay there, blood pooling beneath him. Memories of his clan, their betrayal, and the chaos that had unfolded flashed before his eyes. He didn't understand why they had turned on him. Was it because he was weak? Because his bloodline was cursed? None of it mattered now. He had survived their hunt, but for how much longer?
His eyelids grew heavy, and his breathing slowed. The last thing he saw before unconsciousness claimed him was the faint outline of a shadow moving toward him in the dim light.
The old man found him at dawn, sprawled in the cave's entrance, half-buried in snow. The boy was pale, his body rigid from the cold, yet still clinging to life. A survivor, but barely.
Grumbling under his breath, the old man hoisted the boy over his shoulder and carried him deeper into the cave, where a small fire crackled. With practiced hands, he peeled away the frozen rags clinging to Fenrik's skin, revealing deep gashes and bruises. He clicked his tongue.
"Poor bastard," he muttered, reaching for his flask. Without hesitation, he poured whiskey over the wounds, watching as the liquid sizzled against the raw flesh. The boy didn't even flinch. Unconscious.
He worked quickly, cleaning and wrapping the wounds as best as he could. The kid had lost a lot of blood—too much. If he survived the night, it'd be a damn miracle.
With a sigh, the old man sat back and took a gulp from his flask. He watched the firelight flicker over the boy's face, studying the features that were too young yet hardened by suffering.
"I'm supposed to be enjoying my favorite whiskey, but a dead boy ruins it, doesn't it?" he mused to himself before chuckling. "Oh, I forgot, you're unconscious."
He leaned back against the cave wall, arms crossed. "Let's get you fixed up, and then we'll talk over it with my favorite whiskey. Forgot you're too young to drink, must be going senile..."
The old man hummed a tune, listening to the fire crackle. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the echoes of the hunt. But for now, the boy was safe.