The wind whispered through the pine branches, carrying the sharp scent of frost and pine resin. Snow clung to the edges of the jagged rocks surrounding Skogheim, turning the world cold and still. Agnar Ulfson sat by the fire outside the longhouse, the warmth seeping through his fur-lined cloak but never quite reaching the chill in his bones.
He felt the quiet crackle of the flames, the subtle shift in the air when a wolf howled far off in the Silent Forest. His pale hair, a tangled curtain of blonde down to his shoulders, brushed against the worn leather of his armor. His greatsword rested beside him, wrapped tightly in weathered leather, five bear teeth tied near the hilt—a silent testament to battles fought and won.
Agnar never needed to see the flames to feel their dance. The heat sang against his skin, the uneven rise and fall of the fire's breath as alive to him as the wind.
His mother's soft voice cut through the cold evening. "Agnar," Sigrid called gently, stepping close, her eyes warm despite the frost on her cheeks. "You've been silent this whole day. Tell me what you feel."
He turned his head toward her voice, not needing sight to know it was her. His ability—his curse and blessing—gave him a clarity beyond vision. He sensed the sharp edge of worry in her tone, the love and fear tangled beneath.
"I feel the night," Agnar said, voice low but steady. "The forest holds its breath. The snow hides the footsteps of the deer. The fire is angry tonight—restless."
Sigrid knelt beside him, the leather of her cloak rustling softly. "You speak as the hunters do. Yet you do not see. How?"
Agnar smiled, though she could not see it. "Because I do not need to. I see without seeing."
Behind them, the longhouse stirred. Voices, laughter—his siblings and father returning from the day's chores. The familiar rhythm of home, fragile as the flicker of candlelight in the dark.
Runa's voice called out first, light and teasing. "Brother, have you lost yourself in the cold again? You sit like a statue, carved from ice."
Leif's laughter followed, louder, younger. "Maybe he's listening to the trees speak!"
Bjorn Ironhand's gruff chuckle came next, steady as the mountains. "Don't let the boy fool you. He hears what others miss. A true hunter's gift, blind or not."
Eirik Ulfson, tall and broad-shouldered, stepped from the shadows of the longhouse. His weathered face cracked into a rare smile as he clasped Agnar's shoulder. "Agnar, come. We feast tonight. The deer is good this season."
The clan gathered around the fire, their faces painted with the flickering light. To any stranger, Agnar's closed eyes might suggest weakness, but to his family, they were a symbol of something greater—an unseen thread binding him to the world.
Runa nudged him playfully. "Tell us how you find the deer without eyes."
Agnar's awareness swelled with their presence—each heartbeat, each breath a note in the symphony of their kinship. He felt the subtle rise of excitement in Runa's voice, the brash confidence of Leif, the steady calm of Bjorn, the quiet pride of Eirik, and the unwavering love of Sigrid.
"I feel them," he said simply. "The deer are like whispers on the wind, shadows moving between trees. I listen to their steps on the snow and the stories their breath tells."
Bjorn leaned closer, voice lowered. "And what of the zealots, boy? Their hate grows like a poison."
Agnar's jaw tightened, but he shook his head slightly. "No one knows they are near. Not yet."
His father's hand was firm on his shoulder. "Then you must be ready. The greatsword is yours now. You carry our blood and our wrath."
Agnar reached down, fingers brushing the worn leather grip of his greatsword. It was heavy, familiar, and alive in his hands. The bear teeth tied to the hilt whispered stories of survival—each one claimed in battle or the wilds.
He closed his eyes, not needing them to see the weight of legacy resting on him.
The night passed cold and silent.
At dawn, the sky was a pale shard of icy blue, sharp and clear above the jagged silhouettes of the pine trees. Agnar wrapped his fur-lined cloak tightly around his broad shoulders, the leather straps of his armor creaking softly as he moved. The air was crisp, each breath a frozen plume that vanished into the quiet woods. The snow beneath his boots crunched with a soft, measured rhythm, muffled but steady.
He stepped away from the longhouse, leaving behind the faint smoke drifting from the morning hearth. His destination was the eastern ridge, a steep, rocky outcrop overlooking a clearing known among the tribe as the Deer's Hollow. It was a place where the herd often gathered at first light, their movements hidden beneath the canopy but revealed by the subtle impressions they left on the snow and the trembling of the air.
The forest around him was alive with sound and scent. The bitter pine resin mixed with the damp earth beneath melting ice. Somewhere high above, a lone raven cawed, its sharp call slicing through the silence. Agnar's ears caught the distant snap of a twig—too heavy for a rabbit, too light for a bear.
He followed the whispers of the forest: the faint pulse of heartbeats hidden under frozen branches, the restless flutter of birds disturbed by his passage, the faint warmth of the sun on a patch of rock warmed by the dawn.
Hours slipped by. The snow muffled his footsteps, but his senses reached beyond. He heard the thump of a heart beating beneath the brush, the nervous flutter of wings, and the slow drip of melting ice.
Yet, there was no deer.
No footprints stirred in the frost.
Then, faint but growing—a pulse. Heat that did not belong to the sun.
Fire.
Anger.
Agnar's chest tightened, the emotions like sharpened knives cutting through the quiet. He could not see the flames, but the smoke's bitter sting whispered in the wind.
His awareness sharpened, heart pounding. Somewhere close, something terrible.