Caleb woke with the dawn, his body stiff and aching. The fire had dwindled to dying embers, and the cold had crept back in like a thief. But he had survived the first night.
He checked the supplies.
Two pieces of jerky left.
No water—just ice in the canteen.
But the metal container gave him an idea.
He refilled it with snow and placed it near the fire. Slowly, it melted into something drinkable.
Bitter and cold, but life-giving.
He knew he couldn't last on scraps.
He needed more wood.
He needed food.
Caleb dressed in everything he had—two pairs of socks, jeans, a long-sleeve shirt layered under the thin coat he'd found under the bedding. It wasn't much but it had to be enough.
He opened the door slowly. A blast of cold slapped him across the face. Snow crunched beneath his boots. The forest around his hut stretched endlessly, trees skeletal and covered in frost.
His breath came out in clouds as he moved toward the nearest tree. The axe was light in his grip, but each swing drained him.
The cold sapped his strength with every motion.
His fingers ached.
His arms trembled.
But he didn't stop.
He chopped.
And chopped.
And chopped.
Until he had a pile that might last three more days.
His muscles burned.
His lungs stung.
Then he saw them.
Tracks.
At the edge of the clearing, half-buried beneath the snow, deep and wide.
Hoofprints.
No… not quite.
Cloven.
Large.
Heavy.
Caleb crouched and touched the edge.
Still fresh.
Some beast had passed through recently.
He stared into the woods.
It stared back, silent and cold.
The fire was no longer enough.
Soon, he'd need food.
And to get it…
He'd have to hunt.
End of 3rd chapter.