We moved fast.
The snow underfoot muffled our steps as we made our way toward the cliffs marked on the map. Alice led now, her eyes sharper than ever, her focus unwavering.
There was no hesitation in her stride anymore.
She'd made her decision.
Frostpine Hollow was quiet—eerily so. No birds. No distant howls. Not even the whisper of wind once we passed beneath the towering pine canopy.
It was the kind of silence that made your ears ring.
The kind that said: something was watching.
And it was.
Alice raised a hand, signaling me to stop. She crouched low, fingers brushing the snow.
I knelt beside her and followed her gaze.
There—half-hidden between a pair of jagged stones—was the entrance to the Snow Lion's den.
It wasn't some gaping cave mouth like in the stories.
No, it was narrow. Sharp. Sloped downward. Veiled by fallen branches and packed ice.
But the prints around it—the claw marks on the bark, the crimson smears trailing just inside—it was all there.
Fresh.
