The hollow was alive with warmth when Elias arrived, the faint hum of the Frostmolt carrying through the stone floor before he even ducked inside. The air here always felt different from the rest of the ridge—close, protective, almost breathing.
Inside, the female hare-hawk crouched low over three pale eggs, her wings slightly extended to shield them from any draft. The male hare-hawk stood at the entrance, eyes fixed on Elias until recognition softened the golden glare. The Frostmolt was deep in its work, shuffling sun-warmed stones into place and packing the walls with frostmoss.
It was doing everything it could, but Elias could see the strain—heat maintenance took all its energy, leaving the rest of the burrow less tended. Small cracks were forming in the side tunnels, and one had sagged enough to narrow the entrance.
One Frostmolt could manage in the short term. But the eggs would need weeks to incubate, and the chicks would need more than warmth—they'd need a fully maintained nest.
Two Frostmolts could keep the chamber and all its surrounding tunnels in perfect balance.
He left the hollow in silence and walked straight to the godswood.
Snow crunched under his boots, and the cold bit deeper the closer he came to the heart tree. It stood unmoving, red leaves whispering faintly in a wind that wasn't there. Kneeling, Elias pressed his palms to the exposed roots, letting the stillness sink into his bones.
"I need its mate," he said, voice barely more than a breath. "Two threads for one weave. The nest will not hold without it."
The air thickened. Power welled up from the earth in slow, deliberate pulses, and an image formed in his mind: a second Frostmolt, larger, broader, its fur marked by dark streaks down the flanks, built to guard entrances and push aside loose snow. Its claws were thicker, its hum deeper—more sentinel than caretaker.
He gathered the materials before nightfall: another snow vole's hide and bones, a raven feather with deep violet bands, sheets of mica, and a fresh clump of frostmoss from a shaded rock crevice.
Under the pale light of the moon, he began.
The first attempt buckled before the claws could form. The second lost all structure when the mica cracked under heat. The third nearly held but warped the tail into a curl rather than the flat tamp he envisioned.
By the fourth try, his breath was ragged, and his shoulders ached from holding the shaping in place. He pushed harder, forcing the differences into reality—the heavier jaw, the thicker limb bones, the denser coat.
Heat surged through his hands, and the form solidified. When he opened his eyes, the male Frostmolt blinked back at him, its body heavier than the female's, its eyes a shade darker. Where her iridescence shimmered in soft colors, his was muted under dark streaks. When he lifted it, the hum in its chest came in slow, deliberate pulses, like a heartbeat.
The next morning, he brought it to the hollow.
The male hare-hawk reacted instantly—wings snapping open, a sharp hiss breaking the still air. Elias didn't speak aloud. Mate. Not a threat.
The tension didn't vanish immediately. The male hawk's gaze flicked between Elias and the new Frostmolt, testing the truth of the claim. The female gave a short, approving chirr, and that seemed to tip the balance. The male stepped aside, feathers lowering.
The new Frostmolt met the female with a slow, deliberate circle, the two brushing noses before splitting tasks without a sound. The female went straight to the deeper tunnels, checking heat and walls. The male positioned himself near the burrow mouths, compacting snow and shifting loose rock to fortify the structure.
The days that followed took on a steady rhythm.
The hare-hawk pair hunted in shifts, one always at the hollow. The Frostmolts mirrored that balance—female maintaining the burrow's warmth, male patrolling the perimeter. The eggs stayed perfectly heated, the moss vibrant and growing in the insulated air.
Elias visited often, reinforcing the bond.
Rise. The male hawk moved to a higher perch instantly.
Inspect nest. The female Frostmolt padded into the chamber and nudged each stone in turn.
Seal entrance. The male Frostmolt rolled a small drift of snow into place, leaving only a narrow slit for air.
Each command came quicker than the last. The bond was strengthening—not just with the hare-hawks, but with the Frostmolts.
On the twelfth day, he arrived to find the female hare-hawk making a sound he'd never heard before—low and urgent, almost a purr. She shifted on the eggs, wings twitching.
A faint crack echoed through the hollow.
Elias crouched, heart steady but eyes sharp. One of the eggs was splitting, a jagged line crawling across its surface. A tiny head poked through. The chick let out a breathy cry before collapsing against the shell.
The second egg followed quickly, the chick inside forcing its way free with short bursts of movement. This one was larger, the chick already showing darker mottling.
The third took longer, its occupant pushing slowly until the shell finally gave way, revealing a smaller, paler body.
Even now, their differences were clear:
First chick (male) — Largest head, darker down tipped with silver; bold, immediate in movement.
Second chick (male) — Broadest shoulders, heavier frame; already pushing to the warmest spot under their mother.
Third chick (female) — Smaller, cream-colored fluff with faint copper speckles; slower to move, but eyes keen and tracking.
The parents bent low over them, touching heads to damp feathers. The Frostmolts kept working quietly—female adjusting stones to maintain heat, male standing at the entrance like a shadow.
Elias extended the bond, careful not to overwhelm them. I am here.
The hatchlings stilled, their tiny heads lifting toward him. Through the connection, he felt their confusion, hunger, and the simple need for warmth. Beneath it all was a flicker of recognition—not of his face, but of his presence.
Stay.
They froze in place.
Come forward.
The female chick hesitated but followed her brothers to the edge of the nest.
The link was real. From their first breath, they were his.
He stayed until they settled again, the parents relaxed, and the Frostmolts' hum filled the hollow. Standing in the entrance, he looked back once more.
Two hare-hawks, two Frostmolts, and now three chicks—all bound to him, all part of a single living design. The Old Gods had given him the thread; he was weaving the tapestry.
When he left, the snow covered his tracks before the wind.