The day after the meeting in the longhouse crawled.
Kaden tried to bury himself in chores. He split wood until his shoulders ached. Hauled water until his boots froze stiff. Carried coal for Dorin until Dorin shoved him away for looking too scrawny to be useful. Even Astrid's goats, usually good for a fight, weren't enough of a distraction.
But none of it shook the image of that birch. No natural animal he knew of left those kind of marks.
And the silence. Not empty silence, but listening silence.
The elders had written it down like it was grain in storage. "Be careful." That was all. Kaden had expected more. He wasn't sure what—alarm, questions, maybe someone willing to admit it wasn't normal. Instead he'd been patted on the head with a tally mark.
By evening, he was ready to crawl out of his skin. Astrid ladled stew into bowls, Erik muttered about repairs, and Kaden forced a smile, laughed at the right spots, and tried to look like his mind wasn't sprinting for the ridge.
He went to bed early. Lay there staring at the rafters until Erik's breathing slowed and Astrid stilled. Then he slid out from under his blanket.
Boots. Cloak. Bow. Quiver. Knife. He eased the door open. Cold air slapped him awake.
The village slept. Longhouses glowed faintly with banked fires, smoke curling up into the stars. At the gate, Erland sat wrapped in furs, spear across his knees, chin dipped as if the night had finally outlasted him.
Kaden hugged the shadows, heart thudding. One step at a time. Then the pines swallowed him whole.
The forest at night was different. Familiar trails looked sharper, the trees taller, the dark heavier. Snow squeaked underfoot if he wasn't careful, so he moved the way Erik had taught him: heel to toe, weight low, let the ground decide how loud you were.
The birch stand rose pale in the moonlight. The marked tree waited. Kaden crouched, staring at the gouges. Frozen solid. Beads of sap catching the light.
He pressed his glove to the bark. Cold shot up his arm. He pulled back quick. His stomach flipped. The marks weren't fading. They looked carved yesterday.
And not something the elders wanted to deal with.
He turned away, pulse quick.
Past the birches, the land dipped into a shallow saddle. He scanned the ground. Hare prints darted. Fox pads followed. Then the heavy paws again, sinking deep, claws raking.
He set his boot beside one. His foot didn't fill it. Not close.
The stride was long. The weight dragged forward from the chest. Something big.
He followed until the tracks reached the creek. Ice covered most of it, black water humming underneath. The prints scattered near the bank, then vanished. On the far side, faint indentations picked up again before vanishing into shadow.
Kaden leaned forward, itching to cross. Every part of him screamed to follow. To see. To know.
But his better judgment—what little he had—tugged at him. Not yet. Not at night.
He spent the next hours circling, scanning, testing the ground. Twice he thought he heard something—snow sliding, branches creaking—but nothing showed itself. He nocked an arrow once, then lowered it, feeling foolish.
By the time the sky paled at the edges, his legs burned, his fingers stiff inside his gloves. His stomach growled.
Any sensible hunter would have turned back. Head for warmth, for stew, for a bed.
Kaden looked at the ridge. At the trees crowding together like they were keeping secrets. At the trail across the creek where the prints disappeared.
"Not done yet," he muttered.
The elders had their tallies. Astrid had her rules. Erik had his patience. But Kaden had a restless itch in his chest that chores couldn't smother. Adventure wasn't something you waited for—it was something you chased.
He pulled his cloak tighter, picked a direction, and kept walking.
If the beast was out here, he'd find it.
And if he had to spend the whole day in the woods to do it, so be it.