Night settled over the village like a heavy cloak, stitched from shadow and frost.
The moon hung low and pale, its light spilling across the snow in long, silver strokes. Every rooftop gleamed faintly, every path stood sharp and clear, as if the world itself had been carved from glass. At the edge of the village, where firelight surrendered to darkness, Chris stood and tightened the leather straps of his bracers.
The hunt would begin before dawn.
Five men waited nearby, gathered around a small fire that hissed and snapped as frozen wood surrendered to flame. They laughed softly, voices low but steady, trying to steal warmth from sound as much as from heat. Breath drifted upward in thick clouds, carrying the scent of pine smoke and damp wool into the cold air.
These were good men.
Strong. Proven. Familiar faces etched with old scars and shared memories. Men who had bled together, hunted together, drunk together. Brothers shaped by the same winters and the same fears.
One of them nudged another with an elbow and grinned, teeth flashing white in the firelight. "If we don't bring back meat this time, my wife will feed me bark and snow," he said, chuckling as he rubbed his hands together.
Another snorted. "You deserve it. You missed your last shot by half a tree," he replied, shaking his head, the metal rings of his armor clinking softly.
Laughter followed, brief and genuine. It warmed the space between them, pushed back the night just enough to feel human.
Chris listened without joining in. He stood a few steps apart, axe resting against his shoulder, eyes fixed on the dark line of trees ahead. The forest waited, black and still, its branches heavy with snow. Moonlight caught on frozen needles and bare limbs, turning them into pale claws reaching skyward.
The scent of pine was stronger here. Sharper. Cleaner. Beneath it lay something else, faint but unsettling. Old. Wild.
Chris breathed in slowly, letting the cold fill his lungs. The air burned, crisp and unforgiving. He welcomed it. The sting kept his thoughts clear.
Behind him, the fire cracked louder for a moment, sending sparks spiraling upward. They vanished quickly, swallowed by the night.
"Hard to believe how quiet it is," one of the men said, glancing toward the trees. His smile faltered just slightly. "Not even an owl tonight."
Another shrugged, though his shoulders remained tense. "Cold drives them deep. Same with the deer."
Chris felt it again.
That pressure beneath his ribs. Subtle, insistent. The same unease that had followed him since the slaughter. The same sensation he had felt during training, when the forest seemed to watch him through a thousand unseen eyes.
He turned at last and faced the men.
Their laughter faded.
Not because he demanded silence. It simply happened.
"We move fast," Chris said, voice calm, steady, carrying easily through the cold. "No shouting. No chasing blindly. Stay within sight of each other."
One of the men nodded and lifted his spear. "Same as always," he said, trying to sound confident.
Chris met his gaze. "Not tonight."
The fire popped again. Somewhere beyond the village, a frozen branch cracked under its own weight. The sound echoed longer than it should have.
The men shifted, adjusting cloaks, tightening grips on weapons. Axes were checked. Bowstrings tested. Steel whispered softly against leather as blades were drawn and sheathed again.
Camaraderie lingered, but it had thinned, stretched taut by the silence pressing in from the forest.
They extinguished the fire carefully, kicking snow over the embers until only faint warmth remained beneath white ash. Darkness rushed in immediately, deeper and heavier without the glow.
Moonlight guided them as they stepped beyond the last huts, boots crunching softly over packed snow. The village fell away behind them, its shapes blurring into shadow.
The forest greeted them without sound.
No wind stirred the branches. No birds called from above. Even the snow seemed reluctant to shift beneath their feet, each step muffled, deliberate.
Chris led the way.
The trees closed around them, trunks thick and dark, rising like silent sentinels. Snow-laden branches arched overhead, forming a canopy that swallowed moonlight and scattered it into broken shards. Shadows pooled between roots and rocks, deep and impenetrable.
The scent of pine grew stronger with every step. Sap and frost and something faintly metallic lingered in the air.
A twig snapped underfoot.
Every man froze instantly.
Hands tightened on weapons. Breath hitched, then stilled. Eyes scanned the darkness, searching for movement, for shape, for anything that did not belong.
Nothing revealed itself.
Chris raised a hand slowly, then lowered it just as carefully. They moved on, steps lighter now, more deliberate.
Snow crunched softly beneath their boots, a steady rhythm that felt too loud in the unnatural quiet. The cold crept through layers of wool and fur, biting faces and numbing fingers. Beards and lashes gathered frost once more.
Minutes passed. Then more.
The forest remained still.
Too still.
Chris felt the weight of it pressing against his senses. The absence of sound was no comfort. It was a warning. A held breath before something broke.
He slowed, then stopped.
The men halted behind him without a word.
Chris knelt and brushed snow aside with gloved fingers. Tracks lay beneath. Large. Heavy. Pressed deep into the frozen ground.
Wolves.
But again, wrong.
The spacing was wider than it should have been. The depth suggested immense weight. These were not ordinary beasts.
He straightened slowly.
One of the men leaned closer, whispering despite himself. "How many?"
Chris's jaw tightened. "Enough."
They exchanged glances, tension flickering between them like static. Still, none spoke of turning back. Pride and trust held them in place.
They moved again, deeper now, following the trail as it wound between trees and over frozen streams. The moon dipped lower, light thinning as clouds drifted across the sky. Shadows grew longer, darker.
Chris's heartbeat slowed, heavy and deliberate. His senses sharpened painfully. He could hear the faint creak of bark contracting in the cold. The soft shift of snow settling. The distant, almost imagined sound of breathing that did not belong to any man present.
The pressure in his chest intensified.
The fire beneath his skin stirred.
They reached a small clearing where moonlight spilled freely, illuminating untouched snow like a blank canvas. The tracks vanished here, swallowed by drifting powder.
The men spread out cautiously, eyes darting, weapons raised.
Then Chris felt it.
Not ahead.
Not behind.
Above.
His head snapped upward.
Snow fell from a branch as something moved. A shape shifted between the trees, too large, too fluid to be mistaken for shadow alone. Another followed. Then another.
Yellow eyes opened in the darkness.
Low. Wide. Unblinking.
The forest exhaled.
Chris raised his axe slowly, muscles coiling, blood singing beneath his skin. The men around him tensed, fear and resolve battling across their faces.
The hunt had begun.
And this time, the forest was hunting back.