The door of Mrs. Claus’ cabin swung shut behind him, but Claude barely noticed. His sharp eyes were fixed on the ground, where a trail of strange, unfamiliar tracks led away into the wilderness. The prints were deep and erratic, as though made by an animal that wasn’t quite sure of its own gait.

Mishka sniffed the tracks, her nose brushing the snow. The polar bear rumbled softly, her black eyes flicking up to Claude as though seeking his direction. He crouched beside her, brushing his gloved fingers over the edges of the prints.

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“What are you?” he muttered to himself. The question wasn’t just about the tracks—it was about whoever had left them. Something about the pattern, the depth, nagged at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t place it.

Claude straightened, his grip tightening on the strap of his pack. “Let’s follow them, Mishka,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”