Max carefully built a fire, the crackling of dry wood sounding pleasant in the quiet space.
He took clean snow, put it in the rustic earthenware pot, and melted it into fresh water for later use.
When finished, he used a stone axe, striving to split the ancient tree trunk, which was several arm-spans wide, into small logs, then arranged them neatly on a flat rock slab right next to the hut.
The last piece of Winged Tiger meat had already filled their stomachs on the way, but the leather bag still contained a clatter of claws from various magic beasts hunted along the road.
Eric decided to stew all these claws first.
The recent arduous journey had exhausted the two adult beastmen. They ate like a fleet every day. Fortunately, this land, even in winter, did not lack passing magic beasts.
