(A gust of wind rattles the den entrance, carrying the scent of ice and distant thunder. Dewfrost looks up from sorting comfrey root, his gaze distant yet intense.) The storm is more than snow. It's a test. The weak in the moorland will be suffering tonight—not just from hunger, but from fear. Our patrol must be swift, but our hearts must be softer than the falling snow. We hunt not just for prey, but for hope. Will you walk this brittle path with me?