The ground turned to stone by midday.
What had been dark, spongy earth gave way to a spine of gray rock that jutted out of the forest like the back of some ancient, buried beast. Pine roots clung to it in twisted knots, their needles scattered in thick drifts that muffled his steps. From here the air felt thinner, the wind cooler and sharper, with none of the damp heaviness that pooled in the lowlands.
He moved slowly, not because of fatigue, but because every track was harder to read here. Soft ground told stories; stone kept its secrets.
His water skin was half full, and he sipped from it sparingly. "No stream today," he murmured. "We'll see how long you last." It wasn't much of a plan, but it was enough to keep his thoughts in order.
Signs of life were scarce at this elevation. Once, he found a pair of antlers wedged in a tangle of roots — old, weathered, gnawed at the tips by smaller teeth. Another time, he came across the stripped bones of a hare, bleached white and brittle under the sun.
The smell found him before the sight did.
It drifted on the wind — sharp, metallic, edged with rot. He followed it around a jut of rock and found what was left of a deer. Its ribs gaped open like the frame of a ruined boat, the meat gone from its haunches, the snow-white spine picked clean. The kill was fresh enough that the flies hadn't come yet.
He crouched beside it, running a finger along the edge of a bite mark in the bone. Not clean like a blade, not ragged like a bear. Wolves.
"They ate well," he said quietly. "Better than me."
He glanced around, half expecting to see them watching from the treeline. But the forest stood empty, its silence tight and deliberate. If they were here, they were holding to the shadows.
The boy drew his knife and cut free a strip of meat from the carcass — one the wolves had left behind. It felt like trespass, but hunger had its own law. He wrapped it in a scrap of cloth and tucked it into his satchel.
A low wind picked up, combing through the pines. It carried something with it — not sound, not exactly scent, but a ripple through the air that made the hairs rise along his arms. For a moment, it felt as if the act of taking the meat had been witnessed, and not kindly.
He stood, scanning the ridge. "If it's a problem," he said to no one, "you can tell me yourself."
The wind shifted. Whatever had brushed against him — thought, instinct, or something between — faded as quickly as it came.
By late afternoon, he found a shallow cut in the rock, more a fold than a cave, but deep enough to serve as shelter. The floor was uneven but dry, the roof low enough to trap some warmth.
He laid his satchel down and drew his sword, the leather grip familiar in his hands. The blade's edge had dulled from the salt air of the storm, and the whetstone in his pack felt heavier than it should have as he set it across his knee.
He worked in slow, steady strokes, letting the sound of stone against steel fill the hollow. His father's hands had moved the same way, and the memory was so clear that for a moment it felt as though he were only imitating — the real work being done by someone else's arms.
"You'd have finished this by now," he said, pausing to test the edge with his thumb. "And told me ten ways I was doing it wrong."
The words hung in the air, swallowed by the rock.
When the sword was sharp enough to catch the light, he laid it beside him and unwrapped the strip of venison. It was tough and gamey, but he chewed it slowly, forcing himself to swallow each bite before taking another.
Night came early in the ridge country. The horizon darkened in layers, and the wind took on a restless edge. Somewhere far off, something moved through the undergrowth — not fast, not loud, but steady.
He leaned against the rock wall, hand on his sword. The steps came no closer, nor did they fade. They simply circled, keeping to the edge of hearing.
"I'm not leaving," he said into the dark.
No reply came, but the circling stopped. The forest above the ridge seemed to hold its breath.
The silence was broken by something heavier than a wolf's step — a deep, deliberate thud of weight on soil, the faint crunch of claw against stone.
The boy froze, listening.
A trail of disturbed earth on the slope below caught his eye, and he moved closer. In the fading light, he saw it: a paw print broad as his outstretched hand, claws as long as his fingers. The impression was fresh, edges crisp.
He didn't need his father's voice to tell him this was bear sign.
The next sound was lower, closer — a slow exhale that seemed to press the air flat. He turned toward it just as a massive shape moved between the trees on the opposite ridge. Even at this distance, it looked impossibly large, its fur catching the dim light in heavy, rippling folds.
The bear stopped, lifting its head. He felt its gaze like the weight of a stone on his chest.
Then it began to move toward him.
He backed away, keeping his steps light, but the animal's pace quickened. The distance closed with terrifying ease, its shoulders rolling like waves.
"Fuck no," he whispered, turning to run.
The ridge funneled him forward, narrowing until there was nowhere left to go but toward the sound of water. Stones rolled under his boots, skittering off into the void on either side. The wind carried the roar of a river ahead, growing louder with every stride until it seemed to pound in his skull.
Behind him, the bear closed the distance. He could hear it now with painful clarity — the heavy, rhythmic thud of paws striking earth, the crunch of claws digging for purchase, the guttural swell of breath between each bound. A low growl rumbled in its throat, steady and certain, as if it already knew how this would end.
The trees thinned, giving way to open rock. The cliff's lip rose suddenly before him, jagged and uneven, the world falling away beyond it. He skidded to a halt just short of the edge, boots scraping stone, and looked down.
The river below was a torrent, white water smashing itself to pieces against black, jagged rock. Spray leapt into the air, catching the last light in a brief, cold shimmer. The drop was higher than he'd hoped — far higher — and the current churned like the mouth of something vast and unseen, teeth hidden in the foam.
He stole a glance over his shoulder. The bear had cleared the last bend in the ridge, its massive frame rolling forward with terrifying speed, muscles bunched beneath its thick fur. Its eyes were fixed on him — unblinking, inevitable.
There was no time to weigh choices. No chance to think of another path. The cliff and the bear were two walls closing in, and the only opening was down.
He looked once at the bear, met its gaze, and let a thin smile touch his mouth. "Not today."
He sheathed his sword in one swift motion, clutched the satchel to his chest, and jumped.
The air tore past him, then the river swallowed him whole, cold and violent. The current spun him under, battering him against stone before dragging him downstream. He kicked until his head broke the surface, gasping, the roar of the water drowning out everything else.