Femi jerked awake, his pulse hammering as his eyes snapped open to the glare of twin stars overhead. He sucked in a sharp breath, the scent of woodsmoke thick in the freezing air. Slowly, he pushed himself up from the snow-packed ground, his muscles stiff from the cold, each movement sending needles of protest through his limbs.Debris clung to his fur, crusted leafs, dirt, and the remnants of last night's feast ground into it.
He brushed himself off with quick, irritated swipes, his gaze sweeping the camp.
The Krag encampment was a study in controlled chaos. Around him, the Krags moved with surprising efficiency despite their ragged appearance. They were a patchwork of scars and fur clothes, their green-tinged skin marked with ritual tattoos that coiled like serpents around their arms, as they hauled firewood, the logs groaning as they split them with axes, reinforced tents, and scrubbed charred remnants from cookware, the blackened pots smelling of burnt marrow. Others herded the captured traders and women into wooden pens, their bonds so tight the ropes bit into flesh, leaving angry red welts. The sight made Femi's jaw tighten. He twisted his wrists, testing the ropes.
"I don tire for this rope." The knots held firm. "Rubbish."
His stomach growled, protesting its emptiness. He sniffed the air somewhere, meat dripped onto fire, but before he could search for it, a shadow fell over him.
Varga.
She loomed above, her silhouette blotting out the twin stars, knuckles resting on the hilt of her knife like she was deciding whether to gut him or not. Without a word, she flicked the blade out and severed his bonds. The ropes slithered away, leaving his wrists raw and stinging as blood rushed back in a hot, prickling wave. Femi massaged them, the memory of yesterday's altercation flashing through his mind.
She didn't speak. Just turned and strode toward a pit, her boots crunching ice with deliberate finality, expecting him to follow.
"This girl is dangerous," he muttered under his breath.
Femi scrambled up, his joints protesting like rusted hinges. "I need to find a better place to sleep later. I refuse to suffer this back pain." He cracked his spine, a series of pops that echoed too loudly in the quiet, tail stiffening as he did.
The weapons pit yawned before them, a shallow crater lined with stolen steel and bone-handled tools. Varga stood beside it, her shadow stretching long and jagged across the snow. Inside, blades, axes, and spears lay jumbled, their edges catching the pale morning light in jagged flashes.
"Pick one," she said, her voice flatter than mammy water chest.
His gaze locked onto an axe near the back, its curved head still shining, the haft worn smooth by hands far larger than his. A mirror of the one he'd lost. His fingers closed around it before he could think. The weight felt right.
"One," Varga repeated, eyeing the way his grip adjusted instinctively.
He didn't let go. Instead, his free hand snatched a dagger from the pile, a sleek thing with grooved wood for grip , likely looted from a dead trader."Two."
For a heartbeat, he braced for her to wrench them away. But she only studied him, her green eyes layed still like a frozen river, her expression unreadable. Then she turned and walked off, leaving him no choice but to follow or face the camp alone.
They walked towards a tent, were a one-eyed Krag was hunched over a work bench tinkering with some tools. The warrior grinned, his scar splitting his face like a second mouth, and tossed a leather belt at Femi's feet.
"Wear it," Varga ordered.
Femi crouched to examine it. The leather was supple, oiled against the cold, with a small pouch that clinked with something heavy, a fire striker, perhaps. And, his breath hitched, a sheath for the dagger, plus loops to secure his axe.
"Thank you very much, sir," he said to the green-skinned Krag.
The warrior only grunted, turning back to his workbench where a half-carved arrowhead lay.
Varga dragged him toward the camp's entrance, her grip like iron on his shoulder. The hunting party and n my me stood ready, their breath misting in the dawn chill, their in weapons gleaming dully.Areius loomed at the front, his tusked lower jaw jutting as he surveyed them,Goruk and Talon flanking him, their faces streaked with ash while twenty-odd Krags shifted with restless energy.
"Pairs!" Areius barked, his voice cutting through the icy air. "Listen well, we sweep west toward the Blackroot bogs. Varga's team takes the high ridge, Goruk's group follows the creekbed. Keep horns ready. Two short blasts mean prey sighted; one long means trouble." He paced like he was going to war. "We want the striped elk, but anything with meat walks home with us today. No empty hands. No excuses."
Varga stepped forward and shoved Femi between the shoulder blades, her palm striking like a hammer,sending him stumbling toward the treeline. "The rat runs with me. We'll check the old burns, elk favor those new shoots." Her fingers tapped the quiver at her belt, the arrows fletched with black feathers.
Areius dismissed them with a wave. "As I said yesterday, he's with you."
"So you want to kill me in that bush, abi?"
Femi's grip tightened on the axe. The weapon suddenly felt heavy.
A spear-carrying Krag let out a wet chuckle, his milky eye rolling toward Femi. "Good luck, rat. Last hunter that went with Varga didn't come back. We're still looking for his bones." He spat in the snow between Femi's feet.
Femi didn't like that at all.
Around them, hunters adjusted gear with practiced efficiency. One tested bowstrings while another smeared rancid fat on arrowheads. A pair tied bundles of dried leaves to their belts, likely to mask their scent. Femi noticed none carried a axe like him; just skinning knives, short spears, and recurve bows made from horn and sinew.
Varga grabbed a handful of ash from the small sack and smeared it across Femi's forehead. "Quit your trembling," she muttered. "Elk can smell fear like rot on meat." Her own face was already streaked with charcoal.
The other pairs fanned out, their footsteps crunching on frostbitten leaves as they vanished into the trees. Femi lingered a half-step behind, fingers flexing around the axe haft. The weight of it should've been comforting. It wasn't.
Varga shot him a look that said "keep up". He swallowed hard and hurried after her. The dagger at his belt bumped against his thigh with every step, his tail and round ears twitching nervously.
"What bad life choices led me here?"
The forest swallowed them whole.
One moment, sunlight dappled the snow; the next, the canopy choked out the sky, the pines leaning in like curious giants. The air thickened with the scent of damp bark and frozen earth, underlaid with something muskier, animal, but not one Femi recognized. His pulse hammered in his throat. Every snapped twig, every rustle in the underbrush set his nerves on edge, his hackles rising like a cornered beast's.
Varga moved like a shadow, her strides silent, her body low to the ground. Femi scrambled to match her, his feet crushing the snow, his breath too loud in his own ears, each exhale a plume of panic. The trees leaned in, their gnarled branches clawing at his arms as he pushed through.
------
After trudging through the snow-laden woods for several minutes, the trees pressing closer with every step, Varga turned and fixed Femi with an appraising look. The ratling's nose twitched as he scanned the trees for threats. He saw nothing, but the forest had too many hiding places, hollow logs, dense thickets, hidden burrows and the rest.
"You're no forest rat,the way you are shaking like a newly born calf," Varga said, her breath misting in the frigid air. "I'll have to start your training now, then. Follow me, and stay quiet."
"Training?" Femi's ears flicked backward. Why would she train me? He Wondered.
"You'll get used to the White Wilds or die trying," Varga replied, her voice gravelly.
Femi frowned. "Why are you training me?" He couldn't think of a single good reason.
Varga snorted. "What's the point of feeding you if you die before you're useful?"
Femi considered that. It made a grim kind of sense. He exhaled, his breath a white puff. "At least she didn't drag me out here to kill me in the bush."
"Thanks in advance for the lesson, then,"he muttered.
Varga grunted and strode ahead, her long legs carving effortless strides through the snow. Her boots left shallow prints, barely disturbing the crust. Femi scrambled after her, picking his way around twigs and soft patches, his padded feet sinking deeper with every step. He crouched low, trying to copy her movement and crept over fallen logs, moving as silently as he could, until he realized the core of his problem.
His legs were too damn short.
While Varga walked with casual ease, Femi had to jog. Where she stepped over obstacles, he had to leap. And leaping made noise. His paws crunched faintly in the snow, betraying every frantic step. He pushed harder, determined not to fall behind, but silence and speed were impossible together.
Deeper into the woods, the forest grew darker, the pine boughs knitting together overhead. A cloud of insects descended, a buzzing black swarm drawn to warmth and sweat. They enveloped him, clinging to his fur. Varga's cloak, leather pants, and chest wrap shielded her. Femi had only his fur. And for some reason, the mosquitoes favored him.
He swatted wildly, but the bites stung through his fur. His flailing slowed him further. "Even here, mosquitoes? You'd follow me to another world!" He slapped at his arms, rolled in the snow, and bared his teeth. "How are you lot even alive in this cold? Are you on steroids?"
When he lurched upright, Varga was staring at him like he'd lost his mind.
"Have you lost your mind, rat? What are you doing?" Her tone suggested she was humoring a lunatic or deciding whether to leave him for the wolves.
"Can't you see I'm fighting a losing battle here?" Femi retorted, still batting at the swarm.
Varga smacked the back of his head, the blow was enough to make his vision flash white, then dug into her belt pouch and thrust a handful of crushed leaves at him.
"This is insect bane," she said, thrusting them at him. Femi sniffed the leaves and sneezed violently as the bitter scent assaulted his nose.
"The smell drives bugs away. Rub it on yourself."
Femi didn't hesitate. He scrubbed the leaves over his fur until the stench clung to him. The swarm dissipated almost instantly as if repelled by a god's wrath.
"Ha! Run, you blood-thieves! You're lucky I don't have mosquito raid with me!" He shook a fist at the retreating insects before grinning at Varga.
"Thank you, ma! You saved my life, I might've died of malaria!"
Varga rolled her eyes. "You talk too much for a ratling." She turned and marched off before he could retort.
Femi doubted any ratling in this world was like him. At least none as unlucky, he thought, trotting after her. The leaves itched where they clung to his fur, but the bugs stayed gone
The unfamiliar woods prickled his instincts. Every shadow between snow-heavy branches seemed to hide something poised to drop onto him. He could practically see some monstrous bush-baby lurking above, its claws hooked and eyes glowing, ready to pounce and he doubted insect bane would scare off a predator.
Peering upward, he nearly slammed into Varga when she halted abruptly. She crouched, examining the snow. Her fingers brushed the edge of a print, her shoulders tense.
"Come here, rat. Look," she murmured.
Femi scurried over and knelt beside her. A set of deep, wide tracks marred the snow, each one larger than his head, the claw marks scoring the ice like knife cuts. Vaguely familiar, but far too large.
"Are those… dog tracks?" he asked.
"Dire wolves," Varga corrected, her gaze scanning the trees. "And they're fresh. Less than an hour old."
Femi's fur bristled. "Dire what?!"