Back inside the cabin, Snegurochka tightened her frost-laden cloak around her shoulders. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, but the warmth it gave off felt hollow. She glanced at the door Claude had walked through, a flicker of doubt crossing her eyes.

But doubt wouldn’t keep her alive.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

She grabbed her staff, the runes along its length glowing faintly in the firelight. Volk’s wolves would come eventually—waiting here would only make her an easy target. The people in Siberia who still relied on her protection were more vulnerable now than ever.

“I don’t have time to wait,” she muttered, stepping out into the storm. The wind whipped around her, carrying the faint howls of wolves in the distance. Her grip tightened on her staff as she made her way into the night.