The pines whispered in the wind, their black branches swaying against a dull gray sky. Snow lay heavy on the mountain slopes, muffling sound, making the world smaller, sharper. Even Kaden's breath felt loud in the cold, puffing white into the stillness as he crouched low, studying the ground.
A fresh hoofprint pressed into the frozen mud. The edges were sharp, not yet blurred by wind or drift.
"Yearling," Kaden murmured to himself. He traced the print with a gloved finger, lips curling into a grin. "Sorry in advance."
The forest seemed to listen. Kaden rose carefully, bow already in hand. He moved the way Erik had taught him—heel first, then the rest of the foot, patient and deliberate. Hunting wasn't just about seeing prey first; it was about not being heard. Every branch was an enemy, every patch of crusted snow a trap.
The deer appeared ahead, nosing through a drift for lichens. Its coat blended with the pale woods, but the steady plume of breath betrayed it. Kaden steadied his own breathing, raising the bow.
Don't think of it as killing, he reminded himself. Think of it as the trade. A meal for a life.
He drew the string back, breath slow, arms aching with the familiar burn. The bow creaked.
"Easy," he whispered, not sure if to the bow or to himself.
The arrow flew true, whistling through the cold and striking behind the shoulder. The deer bounded once, twice, before stumbling to its knees in the snow.
Kaden let out the breath he'd been holding. "Thank you," he said, the way his Father Erik had taught him. His fathers voice always echoed in his head when he hunted: show respect to what you take, for it gave its life so you can live yours.
He worked quickly, hands steady despite the sting of cold. Soon the legs were tied, a pole slipped through, and he heaved the weight onto his shoulders. The deer dragged at him, but the ache felt good. Proof of work. Proof of worth.
By the time the village palisade rose through the trees, his arms trembled with effort. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the sharp tang of pine pitch and roasting meat. The gate creaked open, and Erland, one of the watchmen, leaned on his spear. His beard glittered with frost.
"Meat," Erland said, eyeing the deer.
"Charm, mostly," Kaden replied.
Erland snorted. "Your father's been waiting. Don't keep him."
Inside Frostvale, life pressed on in defiance of winter. Children darted between goats, their laughter rising like sparrows. Women hung lines of frozen fish outside the smokehouse, where Kaden dropped off the deer with a nod of thanks. Sparks flew from the forge down the lane, Dorin's hammer ringing against iron. The smell of bread wafted from the longhouses, a comfort that tightened Kaden's chest.
He pushed open the door to his family's hall. Heat rushed to meet him, carrying the savory weight of stew. His mother, Astrid, turned from the hearth, flour dusting her sleeves, and fixed him with a scowl that didn't hide her relief.
"You promised a morning," she said.
"I brought dinner," Kaden offered, spreading his hands.
"Keep the deer. Lose the mouth." But she caught his face anyway, brushing frost from his cheeks, her scowl softening. "You're alright?"
"Good," he said. "Goat didn't bite me today."
"That would be a first."
At the bench, Erik sat mending a net, his fingers moving with patient skill. His father didn't look up, only asked, "What did you see?"
"Three jays who hate me personally. A deer who forgave me before I thanked it."
One corner of Erik's mouth lifted. For Erik, that counted as a laugh. "Stack wood before you eat."
Astrid swatted him with a ladle. "He'll eat first." She pressed bread into Kaden's hand, warm and soft.
Later, after the woodpile was replenished, Kaden wandered to the forge. Heat rolled out like another season, hammer-strikes echoing in the rafters. Dorin worked the bellows, broad shoulders flexing with each pull.
"You look proud of yourself," Dorin said without turning.
"Shot a yearling. Planning to brag until Mira knocks me down a peg."
"That'll be quick work." Dorin's lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile he usually managed.
"I'll call that jealousy."
"Call it truth."
The hammer rang again, but Dorin's smirk deepened.
He found Mira by the goat pens, boots muddy, braid neat despite the wind. Her bow hung across her shoulder, as natural as her shadow.
"You're late," she said.
"It's a theme today. Shot a deer, survived Dorin's sarcasm. Not bad."
"Fix the fence," she said, handing him a loose rail.
They worked side by side. Mira didn't chatter; she never did. With her, silence wasn't awkward. It was steady, like a second heartbeat keeping pace with his own.
As dusk settled, the village gathered in the longhall. Firelight danced across faces as the skald lifted his hands for silence. His voice rolled like the mountains themselves, low and certain.
"Cloaks the color of storm. Boots that left no tracks. When beasts pressed close, they pressed back harder. Some say they could hear a heartbeat through stone, or track a hare across bare ice. They were called Rangers, though no one speaks their names now."
Children leaned forward. Even the hunters stilled, eyes sharp.
The skald drew two arcs above a spear in ash on the floor. "Their mark," he said. "Carved in stone, stitched in cloth. Where it appeared, beasts fell and villages stood."
Kaden's breath caught. He told himself it was just a story, like all the rest. But his chest ached with wanting, sharp as hunger.
He laughed it off, as he always did, masking longing with humor. But as the fire popped and shadows stretched long against the hall's walls, he couldn't stop glancing at the mark scratched in ash.
Not all stories were smoke. Some were sparks waiting to catch.