The pale dawn had not yet broken across Frostshade Forest. Beyond the cabin walls, darkness pressed thick and silent, settling over the trees like a heavy shroud. Inside, however, warmth flickered from the hearth, illuminating carved wooden beams and the bundle of herbs Lira hung to dry by the stove.
The huntsman sat at the rough-hewn table, sharpening his hunting knife with slow, deliberate strokes. The sound of steel gliding over whetstone rasped through the quiet cabin, rhythmic as a heartbeat. His gaze was unfocused, locked upon the blade, but his senses stretched outward – past the timber walls, past the snow-covered clearing, into the forest's silent void.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it thrumming beneath his skin. A tightness in his chest, like a coiled wire pulled taut. The edge of the blade caught faint orange light from the fire, flashing brightly before fading back to dull iron.
Lira moved quietly around the stove, stirring a pot of simmering oats. Her long chestnut hair was braided down her back, the loose ends curling softly against her waist. She glanced over at him, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the way his eyes narrowed with each stroke across the blade.
"Is something troubling you?" she asked gently.
He did not answer at first. His strokes slowed, then stopped entirely. He set down the knife and whetstone, resting his hands upon the table's worn surface. For a moment, he stared into the fire, watching its embers glow like a field of dying stars.
"The forest is too quiet," he murmured at last.
Lira paused her stirring. "Too quiet?"
He nodded once, slowly. "No crows this morning. No wind. Even the snow has stopped falling."
She frowned, wiping her hands on her apron before crossing to him. She rested a warm hand upon his broad shoulder. "Perhaps the spirits grant us peace today."
"Perhaps." But his tone was flat, and his eyes remained locked upon the flickering flames. He reached up to grasp her hand, pressing it against his cheek. "Stay close to the children today."
Her brows knit together. "Why? What has happened?"
He turned to look at her, and for the first time in many winters, she saw uncertainty in his gaze. Not fear – he had never feared anything that walked upon mortal soil – but something deeper. A premonition of an end he could not prevent.
"Please," he whispered. "Stay with them."
She opened her mouth to ask more, but his hand tightened around hers, silencing her words. She saw the way his jaw clenched, the faint tremor in his fingers. She knew him well enough to know when to speak and when to hold her tongue.
She nodded softly. "I will."
Footsteps pattered across the wooden floor. Aryn emerged from the sleeping alcove, rubbing his eyes with a fist. His hair stuck out at odd angles, and his thin tunic hung crooked upon his small shoulders.
"Papa," he mumbled sleepily, "are we hunting today?"
The huntsman forced a faint smile to his lips. "Not today, little wolf."
Aryn's shoulders slumped with disappointment. He wandered to the stove where Lira ladled steaming oats into a wooden bowl. He took it with both hands, blowing softly across the surface before sitting cross-legged on the bearskin rug.
From behind the alcove curtain came a quiet whimper. Sila shuffled out, dragging her stuffed hare by the ear. She blinked up at her father with wide, sleepy blue eyes.
"Papa… bad dreams again," she murmured.
He rose from his seat, lifting her easily into his arms. Her small body melted against his chest, head nestling into the crook of his neck. She smelled of lavender oil and sleep, warm and fragile in his hold.
"What did you dream?" he asked softly, brushing her hair from her forehead.
She curled closer to him, her voice muffled against his tunic. "Dark men… in the trees… with no faces."
His arms tightened around her. His gaze drifted to the window. Outside, pale silver light began to creep through the dense pines, illuminating frozen branches in ghostly glow.
"It was only a dream," he whispered, though his own words tasted like ash.
She peeked up at him, eyes round and searching. "You promise?"
He hesitated, then kissed her brow. "I promise I will keep you safe."
He carried her to the table and set her gently upon a small stool. Lira brought her a bowl of oats, adding a drizzle of honey from the clay jar on the shelf. The girl clapped her hands softly in delight, smiling sleepily at her mother.
The huntsman turned to the doorway, where his cloak and weapons hung upon carved pegs. Slowly, methodically, he began buckling his vambraces over his forearms, testing each strap with silent precision. He slung his quiver across his back, checked the black-feathered arrows, then strapped his hunting knife to his thigh.
Lira watched him from the hearth, her green eyes dark with worry. "You're going out?" she asked quietly.
"Just to the treeline," he said. "I want to check the snares before the sun rises fully."
"Be careful," she whispered.
He nodded once, pulling his dark cloak around his shoulders. The fabric settled over his armour like shadow incarnate. He glanced back at Aryn and Sila, memorising the curve of their small faces illuminated by firelight.
"Stay with them," he said again, locking eyes with Lira. There was an urgency in his voice she had never heard before. She nodded, swallowing the rising knot of fear in her throat.
He stepped out into the pre-dawn gloom. Frostbitten grass crunched under his boots. The cold bit into his skin with needle-sharp teeth. He scanned the clearing, eyes narrowing as he swept the treeline, searching for movement in the shifting dark.
Nothing.
But still… the silence pressed upon him, heavy and unnatural. No bird calls. No rustle of squirrel or fox. Only the faint howl of wind through pine boughs far to the north.
He moved swiftly to his snares, checking each with practised efficiency. One held a small hare, its neck cleanly snapped by the wire loop. He freed it from the trap and tucked it into his pouch for skinning later. Another snare was empty, disturbed by something larger than the rabbits he hunted.
He crouched, studying the faint scuffs in the frost-dusted earth. Broad impressions, heavier than deer. Hooves… but not wild. Shod. A horse. No, several horses.
His chest tightened. He rose slowly, turning his gaze to the southern trail. There, just at the edge of dawn's first pale glow, he saw it.
A flicker of orange light among the black trees.
His breath misted before him, slow and silent. He reached back, loosening his knife in its sheath.
"Gods…" he whispered.
He turned and ran back toward the cabin, moving with silent urgency across the clearing. As he reached the porch, he paused, scanning the tree line once more. The flicker of torchlight vanished behind thick trunks. But he could feel them. Riders. Moving through the forest like shadows with iron teeth.
He pushed open the door. Lira turned from the stove, her eyes questioning. "What is it?" she asked.
He crossed to her in three swift strides, grasping her shoulders firmly. "Stay inside," he ordered, his voice low but fierce. "Keep the children close to you. Do not open the door unless I call your name."
Her eyes widened in alarm. "What's happening?"
He shook his head. "No time. Just… do as I say."
Aryn looked up from his bowl, sensing the tension vibrating through the air. His small hand gripped the rim until his knuckles whitened. Sila stared at her father with wide, frightened eyes, her honeyed oats forgotten.
Lira swallowed hard, fighting to keep her voice calm. "Please… come back to us."
He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers, breathing in the scent of pine resin and smoke that clung to her hair. "Always," he whispered.
But in his chest, the coil of dread tightened further. Something was coming. Something he could not stop with blade or bow alone.
He straightened, eyes cold and focused. Without another word, he turned and stepped back into the pre-dawn dark, letting the door close softly behind him.
Inside, Lira gathered Sila and Aryn against her sides, holding them close as they stared at the door, waiting… listening… as the silent riders approached through the black woods beyond.