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.

Cara moved quickly and quietly down the road, sheathed in a set of simple leather armor that barely fit. Was it her imagination, or did the forest seem to be holding its breath? Usually there were owls here, big spotted ones that sounded like the wailing dead. Tonight there was nothing. Then, as if she had brought it into being with her thoughts, a long howl pierced the starry silence.

Her grip tightened on the knife, its cold handle warming beneath her hand. Moonlight glinted off the sharp edge. This was an excellent weapon, made with the utmost care and attention to detail, but untested in the field. Cara was used to practicing swordplay with sticks.

A sudden noise from a stand of bracken made her hair stand on end. She knew what deer and boars sounded like, and this was not that. She held the knife out in front of her, pointing it toward the shadowy undergrowth. "Come out," she muttered, "come out--"

The wolf burst from the woods like a hawk diving from the sky, fast and focused. Without thinking, Cara jumped to the side, avoiding its first attack. The animal landed on the road on all fours, growling and baring its teeth. The fangs were bloody, the eyes cold with a predatory light. It had already killed once tonight.

Wild animals killed to survive and enjoyed the prey they ate--she knew that full well. But never before had she seen an animal that enjoyed the act of killing.

The wolf moved in for another strike, and Cara reached up with the knife to intercept its side. The blade caught the side of its knee, cutting a narrow gash just as the wolf's jaws locked on her own leg.

Her armor blocked most of the hit, but she felt the pressure on her skin, bruising and warping. The wolf stayed clamped down, grunting and forcing its fangs deeper into the leather. It wasn't going anywhere, and so Cara had an opening. She brought the knife down right in the center of its forehead.

Two strikes later, the beautiful knife was coated with blood and that cold, evil light had left the beast's eyes. She knew the wolf needed to go, its grip on the village needed to be dispelled. Its body was surprisingly light, and she could carry it back to town easily. But first, she looked down at the knife.

It was her first time killing a beast, and this object's first time as well. Neither of them would be the same after this.

She carried the wolf's body back to town, showing everyone they had nothing more to fear from a dangerous beast. And from that day on, she was no longer Cara Smithy, the smith's daughter. She was Cara Fineblade, the girl who had taken up the defense of her town with nothing but a sharp knife and a quick hand.