Snow fell without mercy.
It drifted from a sky the color of old iron, settling over the village in thick, silent layers, softening the sharp edges of roofs and fences, burying footprints almost as soon as they were made. Smoke rose from the longhouses in slow, wavering columns, dark against the pale air, carrying the scent of burning pine, cooked meat, and old ash. The village lay between forest and river, cradled in a bowl of frozen earth, as it had for generations. To outsiders, it might have seemed peaceful.
To those who lived there, peace was only ever a pause.
Men moved through the snow with practiced steps, boots crunching, cloaks pulled tight against the cold. The practice yard rang with the sound of steel meeting steel, blades striking shields in dull, bone-rattling impacts. Breath steamed from mouths and nostrils, hanging in the air like ghosts before fading away. Somewhere near the river, an axe split wood, the crack echoing sharply across the frozen bank.
And through it all, he walked.
Christopher Waldorf did not hurry.
He moved with the calm certainty of a man who had never needed to prove himself twice. Chris was twenty years old, though his face and posture carried the weight of far more seasons.
He stood tall and broad-shouldered, a head above most, his frame forged by labor, battle, and the relentless bite of winter. His hair, the color of wet ash, fell to his shoulders in loose strands, often dusted with frost. His beard was kept short, trimmed close to the jaw, practical and deliberate. No enemy hand would ever find purchase there.
But it was his eyes that made men fall silent.
Sharp. Unblinking. The kind of eyes that measured distance, weight, and consequence without effort. When Chris looked at something, it felt less like attention and more like judgment. He did not glare. He did not scowl. He simply looked, and that was enough.
As he passed between the longhouses, voices dropped.
"There goes Chris the Fearless…"
The words followed him, always spoken low, half in reverence, half in unease. Not shouted. Never shouted. The name carried weight, and everyone knew it.
Chris did not acknowledge them. He never did.
He crossed the practice yard as two younger men sparred nearby, their movements sharp but uncertain. One overextended, slipped slightly on the packed snow. Chris reached out without looking and steadied him by the shoulder before the boy could fall.
"Keep your feet wider," he said, voice calm, roughened by cold and years of shouting over wind and battle. "The ground will betray you before an enemy does."
The boy nodded quickly, face flushing, and returned to his stance with renewed focus.
Chris moved on.
He carried his axe across his back, its haft worn smooth by his grip, the blade darkened by age and use. It had belonged to his grandfather once, a man whose name he bore and whose bones rested beneath a rune stone near the river. The stone stood half-buried now, its carvings softened by time and snow, but the memory of the man remained sharp in the village's collective mind.
Christopher Waldorf the elder had been a warrior of his age.
Christopher Waldorf the younger had surpassed him.
Inside the longhouse, the air was thick with warmth and noise. Firelight flickered across wooden beams darkened by decades of smoke. Benches lined the walls, worn smooth by generations of bodies. The smell of mead, sweat, and roasted meat filled the space, clinging to clothes and hair alike.
Elders sat near the fire, heavy cloaks draped over stooped shoulders, their hands wrapped around carved cups. Their voices were low but steady as they spoke of old battles, old gods, and winters that had nearly broken the village long before Chris had been born.
"…and the river froze solid for three moons," one said, eyes reflecting firelight. "Men walked across it as if it were land itself."
"And still we endured," another replied. "We always do."
Chris paused near the entrance, listening without appearing to do so. He had heard these stories a hundred times, each retelling a little different, shaped by memory and pride. They were not lies. Not entirely. But they were softened by time, edges worn down until suffering became legend.
He took a cup of mead from a passing hand, nodded once in thanks, and drank. The liquid burned warmly down his throat, chasing some of the cold from his bones.
A woman near the fire glanced up, her gaze lingering on him for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Her expression held something unspoken. Admiration, perhaps. Or concern.
Chris met her eyes briefly, then looked away.
He had learned long ago that attention carried its own dangers.
Outside, dusk began to press in, the light thinning, shadows stretching longer across the snow. The forest loomed at the edge of the village, dark and patient, its trees standing like silent sentinels. Chris felt its presence even from here, a familiar weight at the edge of his awareness.
He finished his drink and set the cup aside.
"Hunt tomorrow," one of the men called out. "River path first, then the eastern woods."
Chris nodded. "We'll need more than luck. Tracks have been strange."
That drew a few looks.
"Strange how?" someone asked.
He paused, choosing his words. "Too many. Too close to the village."
A murmur rippled through the room, quiet and uneasy. Hunts were a part of life, as constant as the seasons, but the woods were never to be taken lightly. They listened. They remembered.
"Still," another man said, forcing a grin, "with you leading, what do we have to fear?"
Chris did not smile.
Fear, he knew, was not something to mock.
He left the longhouse as night settled fully over the village. Torches were lit along the paths, their flames hissing softly as snow brushed against them. The river lay frozen solid, its surface cracked and scarred, reflecting starlight like fractured glass.
Chris walked to the edge of the bank and stood there for a long moment, looking out over the ice. The cold seeped up through his boots, numbing his feet, but he barely noticed. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the forest beyond the far bank.
Something stirred there.
Not a sound. Not a shape. Just a feeling, like a pressure beneath the skin. A tightening in his chest he could not explain.
He dismissed it, as he always did. Instinct had guided him through battle and blood alike, but instinct could also lie.
Still, when he turned back toward the village, he found his hand resting on the haft of his axe.
The night deepened.
Snow continued to fall.
In one of the smaller longhouses, laughter broke out as men shared crude jokes and louder stories, voices rising and falling in uneven waves. In another, a mother hushed a crying child, rocking gently beside a low fire. Life continued, fragile and stubborn.
Chris stood apart from it all, leaning against the outer wall of his own home. He stared up at the sky, where clouds parted just enough to reveal the moon. Pale. Watchful.
For a moment, just a moment, he felt as if it were looking back at him.
The sensation passed, leaving only cold.
He pushed himself away from the wall and went inside. The interior was sparse, clean. Weapons hung neatly along one wall. Furs were folded with care. Everything had its place. Control was comfort.
He sat on the edge of the low bed and began sharpening his axe, the whetstone rasping softly against the blade. The sound was steady, rhythmic, almost meditative. Steel rang faintly with each pass, singing a quiet song meant only for him.
As he worked, his thoughts returned to the hunt. To the tracks he had seen near the treeline earlier that day. Too large. Too deep.
Not wolves, he thought.
Not entirely.
He set the axe aside and exhaled slowly, breath fogging the air. The fire crackled, sending sparks upward. Outside, the wind shifted, carrying with it a distant howl from deep within the forest.
Most would not have heard it.
Chris did.
His eyes closed briefly, his jaw tightening. The sound was gone almost as soon as it came, swallowed by distance and snow, but its echo lingered in his bones.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Whatever waits, it waits until tomorrow.
He lay back, staring up at the low ceiling, listening to the muted sounds of the village settling into uneasy sleep. Footsteps faded. Voices quieted. Fires burned low.
Beyond the village, the forest watched.
Beyond the forest, something older than fear stirred, drawn by blood, by moonlight, by a man who did not yet know how close he stood to the edge of everything he was about to lose.
Snow continued to fall. Soft and silent.
And somewhere in the dark, fate sharpened its teeth.