The higher they walked, the more the world changed.
Frostbark trees lined the path thickly now—tall, pale trunks wrapped in silver-blue bark that shimmered under the thin sunlight. Their branches twisted high above like frozen claws, blocking out much of the sky. Snow fell heavier here, untouched by footprints or wind, lying in thick drifts that swallowed every step.
It was colder too. Not just the kind that bit at your fingers and nose—but the kind that seeped into your bones, made your breath feel sharp in your lungs.
Kale kept his flame close to his body, letting it warm his spear-wielding hand. He could feel it flickering slightly from nervous energy. His muscles were tight, ready for movement. Or escape.
Bren walked beside him, axe resting against his shoulder, eyes scanning the ground often. He didn't talk much at first. But after a while, he broke the silence.
"You ever hear the stories about this part of the woods?" Bren asked, voice low but steady.
Kale glanced over. "What kind of stories?"
"The kind that keep hunters up at night," Bren said with a smirk, though his grip never loosened on the axe. "People say the frostbark forest remembers what happens in it. Like it watches. Like it listens."
Kale frowned. "You believe that?"
Bren shrugged. "I don't know. But I've seen enough to be careful."
They kept walking, boots crunching softly through snow and ice. After a moment, Kale spoke again. "Back in town… I heard some kids talkin' about a beast in these woods. Said it looked like a wolf, but taller than a man. Walked on two legs. Left behind tracks full of ash."
Bren raised an eyebrow. "Ash?"
"Yeah. Like somethin' burned around it before it moved on."
Bren gave a short laugh. "Well damn. If that's real, we're not the only ones hunting today."
They shared a glance. A small one. But it felt like something more—like trust, inching forward between them.
Still, neither mentioned the thing they both knew.
Something had been following them since they left the clearing.
Not loud. Not obvious.
Just… there. Lurking in the spaces between trees, moving when they did, pausing when they did. Neither dared look back for long. They didn't want to confirm it. Not yet.
Then came the tracks.
Large. Deep. Claw marks gouged into the frozen earth beneath the snow. Kale crouched beside them, running his gloved fingers along the edges. "This ain't just big," he muttered. "It's fast. Look how far apart these are."
Bren nodded slowly. "Alpha boar. No doubt."
But then Kale saw something else.
Blood.
Dark red, smeared across the snow like someone—or something—had dragged it away. He stood quickly, eyes narrowing. "Boars don't bleed out easy. Not this one." He tapped the tusk-spear. "Its fur was like stone. Its hide? Thicker than most animals I've seen."
Bren stared at the blood longer than Kale liked. Then he finally said, "That's what worries me."
Kale frowned. "Why?"
Bren exhaled sharply, steam rising from his mouth. "Because if this boar got hurt…" He trailed off, looking toward the trees ahead. "Then whatever did it is bigger than us."
Kale tightened his grip on the spear. "Great. Just great."
They pressed on, slower now. More alert.
The frostbark forest grew quieter the farther they went. Even the wind seemed afraid to move through the trees. There were no birds. No rustling. Just snow falling gently, and the soft scrape of boots over frozen roots.
Bren suddenly held up a hand. "Wait."
Kale stopped instantly, flame curling tighter in his palm.
Bren tilted his head slightly, listening. His posture stiffened. "This place isn't silent because of winter," he murmured. "It's silent because nothing wants to be heard."
Kale swallowed hard. He hadn't thought of it that way. But now that Bren said it, he realized—it wasn't just cold. It was wrong. Like the whole forest was holding its breath.
He whispered, "We should keep moving."
Bren nodded once. "Yeah. Let's go."
They didn't speak again for a while.
Then—
A deep thud.
Like something massive had fallen. Or collapsed. Somewhere beyond the last row of frostbark trees.
Both men froze.
Another sound followed. A low, guttural noise—half growl, half scream. Not animal. Not human either.
Kale barely breathed. "What the hell was that?"
Bren didn't answer. He only lifted his axe slightly, stepping closer to Kale. Shoulder to shoulder now. Ready for anything.
"I don't know," Bren admitted quietly. "But that wasn't the boar."
Kale's flame pulsed slightly in his hand. "Then what the hell was it?"
Neither said anything. Because they both knew.
Something else was here.
Something worse than the boar.
And it was already hunting.