The cold stung sharper when you had to walk across the green before sunrise. Kaden tugged his cloak tight and followed Erik toward the chief's longhouse, boots crunching in the rime. The pendant under his tunic pressed against his chest like a secret coin. He hadn't told anyone about it—not Mira, not Dorin, not even Erik. And he wasn't about to, not here.
Inside, the hall's fire gave a grudging warmth. Smoke gathered in the rafters, trailing up toward the smoke hole. Four elders sat by the hearth, their faces familiar as the village walls.
Edda, straight-backed and sharp-eyed, clutched her tally board. Kerrin smelled of willow bark and herbs, hunched under more layers than the rest of them combined. Erland leaned on his spear with quiet patience. And Jorund, the chief, sat in his chair like a man who never forgot he'd once carried a sword to war.
"Erik," Jorund greeted, his voice even as the snow outside. His gaze shifted to Kaden. "Your boy."
"My son," Erik said. "Kaden."
Kaden dipped his head. The fire popped as if to remind him he was on trial.
"Well?" Edda said, tapping her board with the heated nail she used to burn tallies. "What did you see?"
Kaden swallowed and spoke steady. "On the ridge path, near the birch stand. Five deep gouges in the trunk. Too high for wolf, wrong for bear. Creek below had prints—paws, heavy in the forelegs. Long stride. Haven't heard birds up there in days."
Edda bent to mark the board. The nail hissed, leaving a neat black scar. "We'll note it."
"That's all?" Kaden asked before he could stop himself.
"Until it's more than marks on a tree, yes," Edda replied. "We've seen wolves wander close before."
Kerrin grumbled, "Likely hungry. Beasts don't care what shape your imagination makes of them."
Jorund's ice-blue eyes flicked to Kaden. "Marks are marks. Could be wolf. Could be bear. Could be nothing but the tree splitting in frost. Be careful, boy. Don't wander the ridges alone for a while."
"That's it?" The words slipped out sharper than he intended.
"Would you rather we hang bells and cry panic?" Edda snapped.
Kaden dropped his gaze. "No, ma'am."
Jorund's voice softened, but only slightly. "You did right to speak. Do right again by not making more of it than it is."
Erik's hand found his shoulder—steadying, reminding. "We're done here."
They left to the sound of Edda's nail hissing another mark into wood.
Outside, the sun had dragged itself just high enough to turn the snow into blinding white. Erik gave Kaden one of his rare almost-smiles. "Pick up meat from Fin. Your mother's stew wants more than bones."
"On it," Kaden said, grateful to be out from under the elders' eyes.
The butcher's shed sat near the smokehouse, where hides hung stiff in the cold and the air bit with iron and blood. Fin was already out front, wrestling a half-frozen carcass onto a block. His face was flushed red with effort, hair sticking up like he'd been sparring with a goat and lost.
"Morning, Fin," Kaden called.
Fin wiped his hands on his apron, leaving streaks that would never wash out. "Kaden. Thought you'd be sleeping off your heroics."
"Heroics?"
"Word travels," Fin said with a grin. "Claw marks in the trees, whispers in the green. Half the village thinks you fought a monster and won."
Kaden snorted. "If by fought you mean 'looked at a tree until it looked back,' then sure."
"That's one way to do it." Fin hefted a cleaver and brought it down with a satisfying crack. "Your father said stew meat?"
"Yeah. Astrid insists."
Fin bundled a cut in paper and slid it across. "Tell her it's my best. She won't believe you, but tell her anyway."
Kaden tucked the parcel under his arm. "You ever get tired of everyone else's chores being your business?"
"Nope," Fin said cheerfully. "Gives me stories for when I'm old and too lazy to swing this." He tapped the cleaver against his block. "Besides, someone's got to keep you humble."
"Dorin and Mira have that covered."
Fin laughed, loud enough to make the hanging hides sway. "True. Then I'll just keep you fed."
On the way home, Kaden slowed near the edge of the green. The pines loomed dark, the ridge hidden behind them. The elders had been clear: be careful. Stay home. Don't make more of it than it is.
But the claw marks still burned in his mind. And the pendant weighed heavier than the meat in his arms.
He'd done the right thing, reporting it. But the elders only scratched a tally and told him to mind himself. They didn't feel the quiet the way he had, pressing like a held breath. They didn't see the claw marks close enough to smell sap bleeding out of frozen wood.
If there was something in the woods, he needed to know what.
He adjusted his grip on the parcel and walked faster. Tonight, after stew, after Astrid stopped fussing and Erik stopped watching, he'd check his bow. Oil the string. Count his arrows.
Careful or not, he'd go back.
The ridge hadn't finished talking to him.