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Dee had a nightmare. She ran alone, through a dark forest full of cold, dead snow. In her hands was a small bundle, in which a baby squealed softly. The girl did not see him, but she knew for sure that her son was there. Tiny and defenseless. And she doesn't have the strength to save him.

Behind him, frost was spreading and a long, mournful howl. Only it was not wolves that ran after her, but people in wolf masks with bloodied short daggers. She knew it. And she ran and ran until her strength ran out, and her legs became heavy, filled with lead weight.

The air around him became thick as milk. It hurt to breathe. The girl froze in a small clearing, looking around and fearing the darkness, clutching the child to her chest. There was silence all around, but it seemed like a thousand eyes were watching her, invisible and dangerous.

And then the snow next to her stirred: the white veil split and a pale hand with traces of dark blood escaped from it. Deya backed away in horror, watching the