Viktor Valentinovich had spent decades patrolling the frozen lakes of Siberia, but nothing prepared him for the sight of three predators drowning in a slurry of ice. He made a choice that day that defied every survival instinct. A week later, when a sudden blizzard turned the taiga into a white void, he learned exactly how the wild repays a debt. The ice beneath my boots groaned like a living thing, but the sound coming from the center of the lake was far worse. It wasn’t a human scream, but it carried the same raw, paralyzing desperation that makes your blood turn to slush.
Three grey shadows were thrashing in the dark, slushy water, their fur already matted with heavy ice. They were wolves—predators I was supposed to fear—but in that moment, they looked like nothing more than terrified pups being swallowed by the deep. The thin ice around the hole was jagged and lethal, threatening to shatter under the weight of anyone who dared to get close. I knew the rule: never interfere with the cycle of the wild, especially when it involves the pack.
I took my first step onto the trembling surface, the metal of my ice pick cold against my palm. I didn’t know if I was going to save them or just provide the lake with a fourth victim.
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