The snow bit into her feet like teeth.
Sayori stumbled through the woods, thin arms clutched around her middle, her breath coming in ragged, steaming gasps. Blood had soaked through the hastily-wrapped bandages at her ribs, seeping down her side in sluggish streaks. Each step jostled the pain, each breath felt like breathing knives.
But she had escaped.
The ropes had burned her wrists, but she'd slipped through the bars of the cellar window. She didn't know where she was—not truly—but the sky was different now. There were no towers. No curses. No eyes.
Only cold.
And silence.
Her captors would notice soon enough. If they hadn't already.
---
She tried to remember the lessons the human healer had taught her in the village—the names of plants, what berries not to eat, how to start a fire—but it all swirled into panic.
Sayori had never been trained for survival. She was no warrior. No witch. No cunning beast with fangs and speed.
She was just human.
And the woods were unkind to humans.
By dusk, her legs buckled.
She crawled into a hollow under a tree, too small for anything but rabbits and ghosts. The snow beneath her felt like stone, and her fingers barely worked.
She had no food. No fire.
And no name to call for help.
…Except one.
Her lips parted in the dark.
"Fenris," she whispered, her voice raw and near silent. Not a plea. Just a name she thought might carry on the wind.
She didn't believe he would hear it.
She didn't believe in hope.
But she'd spoken it anyway.
---
Far away, in the northern sky, the red moon flickered.
And a hound raised its head from sleep, sniffing the wind, and let out a low, mournful howl.