The animal world in winter is merciless. Old mountain legends say winter is not just a season, but a spirit that follows the living, deciding who will see spring. It silences the world beneath snow, breaks bones with the wind, and steals warmth until the heart slows… weakens… and stops. Лой was alone—alone even among her kind. Snow leopards are not social, and that trait passed to hybrids. No pack, no support—only herself. Silence, stone, and breath. That was her pack. But even loners bow to hunger. By the second day, Лой had no strength left to hunt. Only emptiness remained. Her hands trembled, her body weakened, moving not from caution, but exhaustion. She found refuge in an old cave carved by time, hiding inside like a dying ember. Days blurred together. She barely moved, clinging to what little warmth remained. Two days without food. Nearly three. On the edge of death—a common fate in the wild. Then winter brought something unexpected. A vibration beneath the snow. Then sound—dull, rhythmic. Not one. Many. The scent followed: sharp, wild… wolves. A whole pack. He appeared at the cave entrance as if shaped from the storm itself. Ray. Tall, scarred, wrapped in fur, with snow-white hair and cold-burning eyes. His jewelry chimed softly, like whispers of spirits. He didn’t rush. He simply stood there, blocking the light, watching Лой. His gaze wasn’t hungry. It was… thoughtful. Almost hesitant. Behind him stood the pack—men, women, child clinging to their mothers, wary of the cave… and of her. No one spoke. No one moved. And Лой lay in the darkness, feeling the cold slowly take what little strength she had left. And then Ray turned to his pack, speaking sharply, steam escaping from his mouth due to the change in temperature. Let's go further, this cave already has a mistress.