The forest was colder this morning.
Not the biting cold of a sea wind, but the sort that seeped in quiet, like a thief feeling for an unlocked door. Mist clung low to the ground, winding between roots and stones. The boy moved through it with his weight forward, knees bent, each step deliberate. His father's lessons in hunting still guided his feet, though there was no one here to correct him when he misstepped.
Too heavy. Keep the heel light.
The voice in his head was his own, but shaped like his father's tone. It had been like that since the raid. A habit, maybe. Or something else he couldn't name.
He slowed at the faintest curl of scent on the wind—sharp, wild, familiar. Wolves. Fresh, too. Minutes, not hours.
"They're close," he murmured. The sound felt strange in his throat, like speaking in a temple. He didn't turn his head. Looking would only drive them back into the trees. He'd learned that much already.
The trees here were older, their trunks dark and damp to the touch. Branches sagged under the weight of last night's rain, and cold droplets found his neck more than once. His satchel dragged against his hip, the strap rubbing sore against his shoulder. Inside was the last strip of dried fish from the wreck, two bent hooks, a coil of line, and his whetstone wrapped in cloth.
His fingers brushed the sword hilt over his shoulder. He could almost hear his father's voice: Never treat it like a prize. It's a tool. Keep it ready, keep it sharp.
"I know," he muttered, almost defensive, though there was no one to hear it.
The ground sloped downward until the forest broke open to a shallow stream. Water ran quick and silver over stones, whispering against the banks. His stomach tightened at the sight.
"Fish or nothing," he said, crouching. His voice kept him anchored, proof that he was still here, still moving.
The cold bit at his hands as he filled them and drank. Then he tied the line, settled himself on the rocks, and waited. Waiting was the part he hated most. At sea there was wind, gulls, the push and pull of the tide. Here, there was nothing but the quiet and his own thoughts pressing in.
Minutes passed. His shoulders began to ache from holding still. Then—movement beneath the surface. He tensed, but the shadow darted away before he could set the hook.
"Too slow," he told himself. "Again."
The second try took longer. He focused on the water, ignoring the itch on the back of his neck that told him something—someone—was watching. No splash, no shift in the current. Still, he knew the feeling. He'd had it too many times in the past days to think it was his imagination.
By midday he had caught only one—a small, bony thing. Not enough to bother with a fire. He ate it raw, chewing until his jaw ached. The flesh was cold and bland, but it eased the knot in his stomach.
He followed the stream uphill after that, keeping to the shallows so the water washed away his trail. The sound of it made it easier to think.
"What's the plan?" he asked the stream, though he wasn't expecting an answer. "Follow the water. Eat if it offers. Don't get cornered. Don't get stupid."
The further he went, the rockier the ground became. Patches of moss clung to the stones, slick and bright against the gray. He paused at a cluster of tracks pressed into the mud—deer, no more than a few hours old. There was wolf scent here, too, faint but fresh.
"Close behind them," he guessed. "Or ahead of me." He didn't like either option.
He kept moving, climbing until the light began to fade. By then, the mist had returned, sliding from the hollows to pool in the spaces between trunks. It blurred the forest's edges until every tree seemed twice as far away as it was.
He searched for shelter, circling twice before finding a fallen cedar whose roots had pulled a hollow in the earth when it fell. Dry. Sheltered. Good enough. He crouched inside, knees drawn up, and laid his sword across them.
There would be no fire tonight. Wet wood smoked too much, and smoke carried farther than a howl.
The forest settled into its night rhythm—soft creaks, the drip of water from high branches, the distant rush of the stream. He took stock of his supplies in the dark: one strip of dried fish, barely edible; the fishing line; the whetstone. Not much else.
His hand rested on the hilt of the sword. He thought about the weight of it—not in steel, but in memory. He could picture his father's hands, the way they never seemed uncertain when they held a weapon.
"What would you do here?" he asked quietly. He didn't expect an answer, but the silence pressed heavier after the words left his mouth.
He sat with his back against the cedar, knees drawn up, the sword a cold weight across his lap. "You'd like it here, Sigrid," he said quietly, as if his sister were curled beside him and not buried somewhere under the waves. "You'd chase the rabbits until you tripped over your own feet." He let the silence answer, then shifted his gaze to the dark above. "And you, Mother… you'd hate it. Too damp. Too quiet. You'd scold me for sleeping on the ground." He almost smiled at that. "Father wouldn't say much. Just watch. Judge if I'm doing it right." He traced the hilt with his thumb. "Am I?" The forest gave no answer. Only the drip of water, the creak of trees. He knew they were gone—every one of them—but talking was easier than hearing nothing at all.
Then, far off, a wolf called.
It wasn't a hunting call. Not a warning. Just a low, drawn-out note that seemed to linger after the sound itself had gone.
For a moment, something stirred in him—like a thought that wasn't his own, brushing the edge of his mind. He sat very still, listening.
"That wasn't for me," he whispered, though he wasn't sure.
No other call came. But the feeling didn't leave.
He stayed awake longer than he meant to, listening to the slow breathing of the forest. Somewhere out there, the wolves moved. He wondered if they spoke to each other in ways he couldn't hear, if they had names for these trees, this stream, for him.
When sleep finally came, it was shallow and brittle, breaking at every sound.