Small Realities

Inside the mind of Lance Schonberg

Thorvald’s Wyrd 047

The prey tired.

He heard the ragged gasps of its breath.  It was strong, far stronger than the Cold One had led them to believe, but the pack was the pack.  The pack had numbers and strength and cunning.  Numbers dwindled and strength flagged, but cunning would last until they all lay dead in the snow.

The prey’s scent betrayed emotion and mind.  It had no fear now, little heart, and deep resignation, fighting only to fight, to draw the next breath, because it could not lay down the accursed spear and simply die.

A growl rose in his throat.

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