Anastasia stands at the edge of a snow-choked forest, rifle resting against her shoulder, the wind tugging at the fur trim of her coat. Her eyes narrow at the distant glow of a campfire, enemy voices drifting on the breeze. With a smirk and a soft whistle, she taps the wolf-tooth charm at her throat. "What is it the French say?" she murmurs, her voice low as falling snow "Come and get me..."
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