I had a spear.

Sharper than a blade in a wolf’s mouth.

They called her Trembler, Shivvr, a scream of steel, sharper than fate. None could stand.

 

I laughed.

And called her Willow. Her birth-wood, see? Nothing sacred, Dvalin-made;

a widows’ wail flung a mile.

 

And we hunted together.

Til the Wolf escaped the dagger.