Kaden trudged through the snow with a pheasant dangling from his belt, its feathers already stiff from the cold. One pheasant. That was the sum of an entire day in the woods. His shoulders sagged, not from weight but from the thought of Dorin's face when he saw the "mighty hunter's" prize.
"Should've brought a rock instead," Kaden muttered. "At least Dorin couldn't eat that."
Thinking of Dorin inevitably dragged him into thoughts of Astrid, which came with the much sharper sting of memory. He'd crossed the creek at dawn, told himself he'd be back by midday. And now? The sun was already sliding low, painting the sky in bruised shades of purple and gray.
Astrid was going to have words. Lots of them. And volume.
"Ugh," Kaden groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "My ears hurt already."
Still, guilt wasn't enough to rush him. The truth was, he hadn't found what he came for.
The tracks he'd seen the day before had led him farther into the ridges, but sometime after sunrise, they simply vanished. One moment—clear imprints in the snow, long stride, heavy forelegs. The next—nothing. Like the forest had swallowed them whole.
Kaden had doubled back. Checked every drift, every hollow. Nothing. No tracks. No droppings. Not even a single squirrel chattering overhead.
That was wrong. The mountains were harsh, but never empty. Even in winter, there should have been birds scratching, hares darting, foxes skulking. But the woods had been still. Too still.
The silence pressed on him all day, growing heavier the longer he walked without hearing so much as a jay's curse.
He hated it.
So when the pheasant blundered out of cover in the late afternoon, he almost laughed. He loosed an arrow, neat and quick, and dropped it with one shot. The bird felt like proof the world hadn't gone entirely mad.
Only one pheasant, though. For a whole day of wandering.
"Lucky me, I'll get stew and a scolding." Kaden muttered
He shifted the pheasant higher on his belt and started back toward Frostvale. The sun dipped lower, light dimming by the minute. It would be hours before he reached the palisade. His boots crunched frost, and his breath steamed in the cold, steady rhythm of walking.
His thoughts, as usual, wandered.
They drifted back to the stories he'd grown up on—the Rangers.
If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the skald's voice weaving through firelight in the longhall.
"They wore cloaks the color of storm. Their eyes cut sharper than hawks. Where they walked, beasts turned aside. And once, long ago, a single Ranger stood at the edge of a village—alone—when the beasts came."
Kaden remembered the hush that always followed, every child leaning forward, every adult listening though they'd heard it before.
"There were six of the creatures, their eyes burning, their claws dripping black blood. No hunter could've stood against one. But the Ranger drew his bow and did not run. They circled him, thinking him prey. And when they lunged, he moved like lightning. Every arrow struck true. He fought them from dusk until dawn, and when the sun rose, the snow was black with beast blood, and the Ranger still stood."
Kaden could almost see it—the lone figure in a storm-gray cloak, arrows flashing, beasts snarling. He imagined the silence of dawn broken by the sound of the Ranger's bow creaking, one last arrow nocked though none remained.
The story always ended the same way: "And the village lived, though they never saw the Ranger again."
Kaden smiled despite himself. That was his favorite part. The mystery. The idea that maybe the Ranger had walked on, to another village, another fight. Or maybe he'd faded into the snow like the stories said.
"Bet he didn't get in trouble for staying out past curfew," Kaden muttered.
His hand drifted to the necklace under his tunic.
The disc was plain, cracked, the emblem worn faint but still there—twin arcs above a spear. He rubbed his thumb over it, the metal cold against his skin.
Proof. Or something like it.
Maybe a Ranger had worn it once. Maybe not. Maybe it was nothing more than rust and coincidence. But when he thought about the skald's tale, about that lone figure standing against beasts no one else dared face, he couldn't help but imagine the pendant hanging there, catching dawn light on its worn edge.
What if the stories were true?
What if Rangers had stood right where he was now?
The thought put a shiver under his skin that had nothing to do with the cold.
"Just an old trinket," he told himself. "Nothing more."
But his fingers didn't let go.
The ridge path narrowed as the trees closed in, shadows stretching long. The last smear of sunlight bled away, leaving the world in dull gray. Kaden stopped, resting the pheasant against a rock, and listened.
Nothing.
No jays. No hares. Not even the creak of ice loosening on the creek.
Too still.
His stomach tightened.
He nocked an arrow, scanning the dark.
At first, only trunks. Frost catching pale light.
Then—eyes.
Pale blue. Faint, glowing. Watching.
His breath hitched. The pheasant slid into the snow, forgotten.
The bowstring pulled taut, arrow trembling. His arms shook, not from cold but from the weight of those eyes.
He loosed. The arrow hissed into the dark.
The silence shattered.
It lunged.
He never saw more than flashes. A blur of black. The slash of claws, raking sparks off stone. The rush of air as something massive charged.
He loosed again, wild, desperate. The shot vanished.
A roar tore through the trees, so deep it rattled his bones.
Then the blow struck.
He flew back, the ground cracking his ribs, the bow spinning out of reach. Pain tore across his chest, hot and sharp. He gasped, clawing at the frost, but the world tilted, blurring at the edges.
Those eyes burned through the dark, bright and merciless. Claws rose in an arc above him.
The necklace seared against his skin, white-hot. His vision narrowed to blue fire and pain.
Then everything went black.