By Debby Alten
As mist descended upon Elmsley village, a young man, wrapped within a heavy cloak, snuck upon the grey-stone cottage; set between two elms at the edge of the frozen forest. He was drawn to the lights of burning candles flickering through foggy windows. Then, as he backed up against the cold, moss-covered stones, a soft snarl escaped his lips. And breath became one with the mist.
A wooden bench in front of the cottage labored beneath a layer of fresh snow. There, he thought, he would end it all: just one sturdy stab to the heart with his silver dagger. Surely the gods of winter would not frown upon him now. Surely no other had ever bore such a burden as his.
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Grey Wolf from Wikimedia Commons