Beneath the shadow of Rellekka, a lone hunter stalks the night. His cheeks, nose and ears are flush with cold and his breath fogs in front of him. Snow crunches beneath his boots. He plucks at his bow string absentmindedly to distract himself from the yawn of his empty belly.

It’s been a hard winter. Together with the other predators, the lack of game has driven him further towards the mountain. And there’s been talk of wolves.

He goes to pluck the bowstring again, then hesitates; he’s heard something moving in the trees. With luck, it will be his ticket home. He thinks of his family, of warming his hands by the hearth. He must be careful not to waste this chance.

The hunter slinks into the shadows as silently as he can and nocks an arrow. He’s sure now that there’s something there, but it’s obscured by the conifers. As he tells himself to be patient, a memory creeps into his mind unbidden. No, not a memory - a legend. The legend of Hati, Sköll and Fenrir: the savage wolves that they say no lone man can kill. Who it’s foretold will devour the sun and moon to bring about the End of Things. Who stalk the Fremennik Province with the start of each new year. And how long has it been, he thinks, since his children took down their Christmas tree?

His skin prickles. The wind dies and the forest soaks in silence. Has it gotten colder?

He is thinking about moving to a better vantage point when the moon breaks through the clouds, casting silver light down through the trees and chasing away the shadows that hide him. The creature will now see him if it only turns. As he looks around in panic, he spots a print in the snow that he hadn’t seen before. The paw print of a huge wolf.

He scrambles back, not daring to take his eyes from the spot. The arrow falls to the ground.

His heart hammers against his rib cage. He takes a deep breath and focuses his mind: wasn’t it said that riches awaited the adventurer who slew any one of the three great wolves? Legendary items which could improve his skill and keep his family fed for the rest of their lives; trophies abundant so that none might doubt his heroism...

The hunter reaches for the arrow in the snow. Licking his lips, he stalks back to his vantage point. He tells himself that an arrow in the beast’s heart will make him a hero. And a rich one, if the legends are true. He thinks of draping his wife in diamonds as he readies the arrow and tells himself not to hesitate. If he hesitates, he’s lost.

The creature is now in front of him but still obscured from view. To get it in range, he must rise above the thicket that shields him.

Sweat glistens on his brow despite the cold. His blue-knuckled hands tremble. Finally, he stands.

He takes aim at the creature as it meets his eye. Then it raises its antlered head and springs away.

The hunter curses aloud. He’d hesitated. Wolf or not, that deer would have fed his family for a week. Now they will go hungry. He curses again and throws down his bow.

The growl that comes from behind him is low and muffled, and the enraged hunter barely hears it.

Certainly not in time.