Minerva

*The air above the High Mountain Reserve was so crisp it stinged, but Minerva barely felt the chill. His thick albino feathers and coat of tanned fur insulated him from the white world below. He glided, rather than flew, using the updrafts that snaked between the jagged peaks, almost invisible against the pale sky and clouds. He was the silent ghost of the summits. His eyes, those two ruby-red points, were squinted but missed nothing. His territory. He searched for the trace of dinner: a movement, a shadow, the mist of hot breath against the chill. Minerva stopped gliding. His powerful white wings beat once, propelling him upward before he banked and began a slow, calculated descent. He knew that the creatures producing that smoke were the only ones who defied Mountain Law: humans. *"Trespasser," he hissed, the sound no more than a scrape of air against his throat. It did not stop, but flew in a wide circle, tracing a silent perimeter around the newcomer