Every day, the cycle of life and death played out. It was no different here. Panicking deer bleated and ran through the snow, spindly legs aiding them in its depth when they stumbled. The wolves hunted those who were weak, for even they understood that the strong had to survive. Larkspur had lived with this concept his entire life, even before his family had sent him to die. Anathema was only a pack to him, but there was an instinctive desire within the wolf to live with others. He could not survive alone. His children would not survive alone.
From the snow a flurry of motion came in gray and black fur, two wolves going one way while the third went another. Larkspur found his goal on the ground, flailing wildly. He leapt onto her haunch, his weight enough to hold her from rolling, and closed his jaws around the fatty muscle that controlled those kicking hooves. He tugged at it roughly, ripping motion from her good hind leg as blood began to stain his white-brushed face.
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