The small longhouse at the camp's edge became Kael and Elian's world. It was a meager sanctuary, perpetually smelling of damp earth and old furs, but it offered shelter from the relentless mountain winds. Kael, now nearly four years old, understood the terms of their stay: prove worth, or be cast back into the unforgiving peaks.
He left the longhouse before dawn each day, a silent wraith against the pre-light gloom. His single eye, sharp and piercing, scanned the jagged terrain. He was a hunter now, driven by a singular purpose: to bring back game, to meet Chief Orm's demands, to secure Elian's place.
His hunts were brutal, efficient. He used the knowledge gleaned from Bjorn's few lessons, combined with his own instinctual cunning. He tracked Mountain-Goats through treacherous passes, cornered Razorback Boars in narrow gorges, and learned the migratory paths of the elusive Ice-Hounds. His rusted blade, constantly sharpened, flashed with lethal intent. He didn't just kill; he processed. Every ounce of meat, every scrap of hide, every valuable bone or claw was meticulously stripped, cleaned, and prepared.
He returned to the camp, usually after dusk, a silent shadow draped in animal furs, a fresh kill slung over his shoulder. The other Vikings, initially dismissive, began to notice. A steady stream of meat. A consistent supply of quality hides. The boy, small as he was, provided.
Chief Orm, initially grim-faced, would sometimes observe Kael. He saw the child's tireless efforts, the quiet discipline. He saw the quality of his kills. Grudging respect, like a slow-melting glacier, began to form. Kael was not of their blood, but he upheld the mountain's highest law: survival earned through effort.
Bjorn, in particular, watched Kael with a strange, contemplative intensity. He saw the tireless drive, the unwavering focus. He would occasionally offer Kael quiet advice on tool maintenance, on weather patterns, on the specific vulnerabilities of a new beast Kael sought to hunt. Kael would absorb it all, a silent sponge, his only response a curt nod, his single eye unwavering. Their relationship was one of unspoken understanding, a shared reverence for the brutal efficiency of the hunt.
While Kael became the silent provider, Elian began to flourish in the communal environment. The Viking women, initially wary of the strange child from the ash-lands, found themselves drawn to his bright, innocent spirit. Elian, now a curious toddler, explored the camp with wide-eyed wonder. He would babble in the guttural, earthy tongue of the Vikings, his small hands reaching out to the fur-clad warriors. They would offer him bits of roasted meat, or carved wooden toys. He was accepted, loved, in a way Kael never could be. Elian was their light. Kael remained their shadow.
Kael would watch Elian from a distance. The way Elian's small body leaned into a Viking woman's embrace. The way he laughed, a pure, unburdened sound. It filled Kael with a quiet, fierce satisfaction. This was why he hunted. This was why he survived. Elian was thriving. He was becoming one with the tribe, a stark contrast to Kael's eternal separateness.
It was during one of Kael's brief returns to camp that he encountered her again.
Freya. The Viking girl with the dark, braided hair and the focused gaze. She was of same age as Kael, perhaps five or six, but her intensity made her seem older. She was often found at the edge of the training grounds, her small, blunted axe moving with a precise, almost fluid grace.
Kael had just returned with the carcass of a Dire Wolf, its shaggy hide still steaming in the cold air. He dropped it with a soft thud near the outer longhouse, beginning the methodical process of skinning.
Freya, who had been practicing a series of swift deflections, paused. She walked over, her eyes immediately drawn to the cleanly severed neck of the wolf. She knelt beside him, uninvited, her presence unsettlingly familiar.
"You are strong now," she stated, her voice clear and direct, devoid of the usual childish chatter. Her gaze swept over his lean, hardened frame. "Your blade is faster."
Kael grunted, a noncommittal sound. He continued his work, his fingers stained with blood and grime. He didn't look at her directly, but he felt her presence, keen and observant.
"My father says you are a hunter like no other," Freya continued, her voice holding a rare hint of wonder. "He says you see what others cannot." She pointed a small, calloused finger at the wolf's carcass. "The joint near the shoulder. You always strike there. It is hidden."
Kael paused, his single eye meeting hers briefly. She saw it. The unseen weaknesses. His method.
"He says your will is a thing of legend," she added, her eyes now searching his. "But what is your purpose, silent hunter? You give no name. No song to the tribe."
Kael looked away, back to the wolf. "For him," he rasped, his voice rough with disuse. He subtly inclined his head towards the longhouse where Elian slept soundly.
Freya followed his gaze. She saw Elian, a small, peaceful lump under a fur blanket. Her expression softened, a fleeting warmth in her fierce eyes. "He is well," she murmured. "He laughs. He is strong. You feed him well."
She shifted closer, picking up a small, smooth stone from the ground. "The mountain is harsh," she said, her voice dropping to a low, almost conspiratorial whisper. "But it provides. You take what it gives. You do not ask. That is the way of the mountain. And the way of our tribe, in truth."
Kael finally looked at her fully. He saw her earnestness. Her understanding. She didn't pity him. She didn't fear him. She simply saw him for what he was: a pure, unyielding force of survival. He recognized a kindred spirit, a reflection of his own pragmatism in her young, fierce eyes. It was not friendship, not in the way of others, but a connection born of shared understanding. A mutual, unspoken respect.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. It was the closest he had come to acknowledging another human being, save for Elian and Bjorn.
Freya's lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile. It was not the wide, open smile of children, but a cold, knowing curve that matched his own grim practicality. She understood. And Kael, in turn, felt a strange, unbidden sense of acceptance, a quiet solace in her understanding. The silent hunter had found a silent ally.