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.
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.