Frost clung to the grass as we set out before sunrise. Our breath fogged in the cold air, and the only sound was the steady crunch of boots on frozen ground.
We were following the tracks again—both sets. The heavier, three-clawed prints had crossed the dry riverbed in the night. The bent-toed ones had too, but at a different angle, weaving in and out of sight like they were keeping watch from the edges.
The landscape felt different this morning. The wind was sharp, and it carried something with it—faint, high-pitched calls, so distant they could've been a trick of the air.
"Birds?" Brayden asked.
"Too early for the gulls to be inland," Vell said, squinting toward the pale sky. "And too cold."
We pressed on.
By mid-morning we reached a low ridge overlooking a marshy hollow. Reeds rattled in the breeze, their tops dusted white with frost. From here we could see the marks of a fight—fresh, maybe only hours old.
Mud churned in deep arcs. Broken reeds floated in shallow pools. And scattered around the edges were long, pale feathers, their edges tipped in a soft gray.
Not like any hunting bird I'd seen.
"Those are big," Riken murmured, picking one up. It was longer than his forearm. The vane was fine and soft, almost silken.
Vell knelt, scanning the ground. "Tracks match the bent-toed ones. The lighter set."
I felt it then—a shift in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks. The wind rose, hissing through the reeds, carrying that faint call again.
Closer this time.
We moved carefully, weapons at the ready, but there was no sign of the creature itself. The bent-toed prints ended in a stretch of trampled reeds, where the frost had been melted away by body heat. In the center, a few dark drops stained the mud.
Blood—but not much.
"Something else was here," Danya said, pointing to a deeper gouge in the earth. The heavy three-clawed prints overlapped the bent-toed ones.
The two trails tangled for a while, then split—one heading east, the other north.
"Which one do we follow?" Brayden asked.
Before anyone could answer, the reeds swayed violently across the hollow. A gust tore through, bending the stalks almost flat. Something vast moved within, too quick to see clearly, but its shadow rippled over the water.
For a heartbeat, I caught the shape—a sweep of wings, so wide they blotted the gray sky, feathers flashing pale in the weak sunlight. Then it was gone, vanishing into the reeds without a sound.
We stood frozen, the only movement the steam from our breaths.
"That wasn't the Monster," I said finally.
"How do you know?" Riken asked.
"Monsters don't move like that," I replied. "That was… controlled."
Vell was still scanning the sky. "Whatever it is, it's huge. If it wanted us, we'd already be dead."
Danya stepped forward, crouching to pick up another feather—this one broken, the shaft splintered. "It's hurt."
We followed the bent-toed trail north, but it ended abruptly at the edge of a rocky slope. No claw marks in the stone, no blood—just open sky above.
"Flew away," Brayden said.
"Or it's watching from somewhere we can't see," Vell countered.
We lingered a few minutes more, scanning the ridges and clouds, but saw nothing. The wind had shifted again, carrying only the dry rustle of reeds.
By the time we returned to the barracks, the sun was low. Halvren was there, leaning against the wall near the main board. He looked up as we entered, his gaze sharp but unreadable.
I didn't stop, just handed in our report. The clerk's eyes flicked over the words "large pale feathers" before sliding the parchment into the drawer.
Halvren's gaze followed me as I walked away.
That night, I lay awake, the image of those wings burned into my mind. If the stories were true, a Beast had crossed into the Commons. And if it was hurt, then the Monster was still close.
But Beasts didn't show themselves without reason.
Which meant, one way or another, it had already chosen someone.