The thief's body tears through the wood, galloping as if away from some unseen threat. Manhattan flies behind him, kicking up clods of cold, packed dirt that runs along Zekiah's hoofprints in the frost. The scent of snow hangs high in the air above, just out of reach but still teasing them with the days of Frostfall yet to come. As the body of the smoky black nonius comes to an abrupt halt, Manhattan lets out a chorus of barks and song. Today, this early and uncharacteristically bright morning, they are happy.

If asked why, Knox knows that he would answer in Zekiah's deeper, slippery tones that he is unsure. He cannot find a clear reason for his joy, cannot find in the mist of his mind a motive or understanding of the uncharacteristic smile that crosses his most-often tight, scowling or concerned features. But that fear, that worry, and that doubt, have all left him. He stands, his body lashed by the cold Orangemoon wind and his chest heaving with the memory of the effort of the run, happy for the first time in such a very long time.

And perhaps it is that her master's joy is infectious, but Manhattan, too, shares the sense of elation. She dances and bows at his feet, her tail wagging viciously to strike her hindquarters and Zekiah's slender legs as she weaves in and out of his shadow. Her barks, edged by a higher, gleeful note, send what would usually be their prey far into the recesses of the forest. Today the pair have no interest in the hunt; today, the hunter retires and shares his mind instead with the memory of two twin colts playing together in their own cold and distant winter.

His breath catches in the air, condensing and leaving a trail of white leading off from his scarred features. Manhattan brushes against Zekiah's blindside once more before laying beside him and panting with excited exhaustion. In his mind, locked in his knowledge of his ancestor's past, Knox can feel the strike of snow against Zekiah and Zsoka's thin legs. In the darkness of a blind eye, he sees their shadows cross in the twilight.

He sees, in his mind, through memories that are not truly his own, Zsoka's bloody body trembling and falling, torn to pieces, staining the white earth a cruel crimson. He watches the bridle slide from Zsoka's thin face, and a young Zekiah follow its path to the earth. Tragedy replays itself once more in the eye of the mind. In an instant, everything fades to sorrow.

—

[MESOX]