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There was a treacherous part of Samo that longed to obey. To be instructed, ordered, told what to do. Always certain in his purpose and necessity. He had not understood the simplicity and stability of an indentured life until he was suddenly set adrift from all bonds. So long he had wanted freedom—and now that he had it, he did not know what to do with himself. Once a slave, always a slave. The mark upon his face had inscribed his purpose onto his soul.

Samo tried to shut out his inner doubts. He focused on the numbing bite of the cold on his paw pads instead. At least this was real and present, and kept his thoughts from straying back to darker times, to the memories of saltwater clogging his throat or to the terror of a bronze gladius held against his neck. He tried to think of the scents that entered his nose instead, and of winding his way among the bare trees.

Snow clung to his fur as he set to work assembling the first of his traps, carefully arranging the sticks to prop up the killing rock. As he worked, he kept an eye out for anything unusual nearby—one of those strange stones of power, or something else.