The air had frozen solid.
The wolves' breaths turned to mist in the cold night. Their eyes burned like red dots in the darkness. The surrounding trees stood silent, as if watching.
Zaber did not move.
He was not afraid.
Yet he did not feel strong either.
His hands trembled slightly, his body felt unbearably heavy. The muscles in his legs were exhausted from walking, from hunger.
"Come…" he said in a low but cold voice. "Do not wait for each other."
The wolves did not reply.
They were hunters. They moved on instinct.
The largest wolf in front—the one with old scars on its neck and half an ear missing—slowly advanced. Its paws sank into the ground, claws raking the soil.
The next instant—
It leaped.
Very fast.
Before Zaber could raise his sword, the wolf was already upon him. Teeth struck steel.
CRACK!
The impact traveled through his wrist. It felt as if the bone had shattered inward.
"Fast…" he thought. "But not weak."
He parried the blow and sidestepped.
