Cara held up her hand to the golden horse, who tossed his mane, snorting hot breath across her face. "Easy, Flame. Steady there, you beautiful bright fellow." She spoke slowly, making sure to show him she meant no harm. Animals reacted well to the truth, spoken plainly and clearly. They sensed bad intentions more surely than any merchant in the market in Drumlyn.

Flame's hoof dragged across the stone floor, making a terrible scraping sound. Cara gasped and lurched forward, bending down to examine the foot. "Don't wear down your hoof!" she exclaimed. "Not before you get your shoes on!" She was rewarded for her troubles by almost receiving a kick to the face. Barely managing to dodge the horse's hoof, she retreated to a safe distance to continue her soothing speech.

He was a good horse, one she knew well. He loved scratches behind the ears and above the knees, huffing happily when she told him stories about legendary heroes and thieves in distant cities. Never before had he tried to kick her.

"What's got you so spooked?" she wondered aloud.

"Cara!" Her father's voice came from the other side of the thin wall, accompanied by the clinking of the horseshoes he'd forged yesterday. "Have you calmed the big beast down yet?" he asked teasingly.

"He's not a beast, he's a friend!" She sighed. "Something's got him in a panic. He's not right."

"Never before have I seen a horse you couldn't talk some sense into," her father answered. "Take a moment. Angus is paying well for new shoes on Flame, as well as some nails and hooks to fix up his barn. But it's got to be done by tomorrow."

"Do you know what it was?" she asked. "That spooked him? Was it the foxes in the forest?"

"Not a fox," he said, as Flame's ears slowly perked up from their flattened position. "The beast Angus saw was much bigger, the same one that's been haunting the hills around Lochin for the last few moons, stealing sheep and swine. It's a wolf, and a vicious one. And it's moving into this valley."

The horse whinnied in terror and thrashed against the rope holding him, as if he could understand the word wolf. Cara thought of the forest, her favorite place to go on an afternoon when her chores were done. She knew it better than almost anyone--all the bluebells and clovers coating the ground, the brooks winding toward the mighty Silver River, and especially the animals. She hated the idea of her forest becoming a dangerous place for man and beast alike. One vicious creature shouldn't have to force everyone else to live in fear.

"Flame," she whispered, "I'll make it right for you."

That night, sleeping near the still-warm coals of her father's forge, she dragged herself out of bed by starlight. She took a knife from the worktable that he had forged a moon ago, a fine weapon with an edge sharp as a lynx's claws. She was going to find the wolf, and she was going to kill it.