Signs of the Valley

The wind, once a biting whip of ice and snow, had softened. It no longer howled its mournful dirge across the barren peaks, but instead sighed, a gentle breath carrying the faintest, most tantalizing scent. Corvus, perched on a jagged outcrop, tilted his head, his keen ears catching the subtle shift. It was the scent of pine, yes, but not the sharp, resinous tang of the mountain pines they knew. This was deeper, sweeter, carrying a whisper of damp earth and something else… something alive.

"Do you smell it?" he croaked, his voice rough from disuse and the cold.

Luna, who had been playfully batting at a snowdrift, paused, her ears swiveling forward. Ragnar, ever watchful, stopped his slow patrol, his nose twitching. Willow, nestled close to her brothers, lifted her head, her large, intelligent eyes fixed on Corvus.