The night fell still. Snow blanketed Hollow Mountain in silvery quiet, muffling even the crunch of warrior boots. The moon hung swollen and pale, spilling light that seemed too sharp, too knowing, as if the Moon Goddess herself leaned close to witness what was about to unfold.

Little Fang stood at the edge of the tree line, his small frame dwarfed by the towering pines and the shadows that seemed alive with expectation. He was not so little anymore, not by size, nor by spirit, but the name ...