Stone Circle every little lie in this world comes from dividing

She does as he’s asked, albeit with obvious reluctance. He watches as she turns to lick the bloodied snow instead. Vermouth says nothing, glancing between the young she-wolf and the land behind her. He sniffs at the air again, ignoring her whine.

But he jerks when something touches his chin. He bristles again, stiffening, but relaxes when he sees her prostrating herself at his feet. With a slow intake of breath, he steps back from his kill. He imagines she’ll flip over and fall upon it swiftly.

“Where are your pack mates?” he wonders, mostly a rhetorical question.

As she presumably eats, he shifts past her. He smells at least a few other wolves, yet he sees no sign of them. He susses out information from their scents, eyes narrowing when one strikes him as vaguely familiar. He cannot place it, even after pondering for a solid sixty seconds.

He turns and walks back toward the young woman, asking, “What’s your name? And what’s the name of this place?”