The forest woke before he did.
Birds greeted the dawn with a chorus that rolled through the trees like ripples in a pond. The oaks and elms swayed in response, their leaves whispering secrets to one another in a language older than men. Squirrels chased each other up trunks. Rabbits nibbled at clover. A fox watched from a distance, decided he wasn't a threat, and moved on.
Few predators roamed these woods. The wildlife had learned to thrive here, to trust the peace.
It was a hidden oasis. A secret tucked away from the world.
And it was his.
Logan knelt by the river's edge, the water so clear he could count the smooth stones at the bottom. He cupped his hands and lifted the cold to his face, letting it run down his neck, his chest, washing away the sweat of his morning training. He closed his eyes and breathed—warm air in, cold water lingering on his skin. For one moment, there was only sensation. Only peace.
He opened his eyes. Pale grey, like winter sky.
He slicked back his wet black hair, longer now than in childhood, always threatening to fall across his forehead. He'd need to cut it soon. Or not. His mother never complained.
"Looooooogan!"
The voice shattered the morning.
He didn't flinch. He knew it too well—that sing-song call, always cheerful, always arriving exactly when he wanted to be alone.
He sighed. Deeply.
More trouble.
"Hey Logan!"
Footsteps now. Light ones, quick ones, skidding to a halt somewhere behind him.
"So I was thinking..." A pause, probably for dramatic effect. "Now that you're done with your silly workout routine, you could take me to the top of Old Frog Hill!"
He turned.
Brynn stood there, eighteen now but bouncing on her toes like the five-year-old who used to follow him everywhere. Her dark hair escaped its braid in a dozen directions. Her hazel eyes sparkled with the particular mischief that meant she'd been planning this for days. She was already wearing her climbing clothes—her good clothes, which meant she wasn't taking no for an answer.
"Old Frog Hill?" he asked flatly.
She nodded, bouncing higher. "Old Frog Hill."
"It's almost a half-day's walk."
"So we'll pack lunch."
"It's steep."
"You're strong."
"It's dangerous."
She tilted her head, smile widening. "That's why I'm bringing you, dummy."
He stared at her. She stared back, utterly unafraid of his resting murder face. She'd never been afraid of it. Not once.
The river murmured behind him. The birds kept singing. Somewhere in the trees, that fox was probably watching and thinking, These two again.
Logan sighed again—the sigh of every older brother who had never won a single argument in his life.
"Fine."
Brynn punched the air. "Yes! I'll pack the food! You bring the—" She stopped, squinting at him. "What do you bring? You never bring anything."
"I bring protection."
"From what? Squirrels?"
"From you falling off a cliff."
"I never fall."
"You fell out of a tree last week."
"That branch had a grudge."
Logan snorted—the closest he came to a real laugh—and turned back to the river. Water still dripped from his jaw, his chest, tracing paths down skin darkened by the sun and hard work. He grabbed his shirt from a nearby rock and pulled it over his head, the fabric clinging for a moment before settling.
Behind him, Brynn went quiet.
Not her normal quiet—the loud kind, where she was thinking so hard you could almost hear the gears grinding. This was different. This was still.
"Hey, um..." Her voice faltered. "What's that mark on your back?"
He froze, shirt half-tucked.
His back flexed as he twisted, trying to glimpse his own right shoulder—a useless instinct, since he'd need three necks to actually see it. He'd seen the mark before, of course. In reflections. In bathwater. In the way his mother sometimes touched it when she thought he was asleep.
He'd never thought much of it.
"Oh, that?" He pulled the shirt the rest of the way down and turned to face her. "Just a birthmark. Don't tell me you've never seen it."
Brynn squinted at him, suspicious. "Well, I have, but I always thought it was dirt. You know, since you're always—" She gestured vaguely at all of him. "—dirty."
He raised an eyebrow.
She grinned. "No, but seriously. It looks strange. Like a little crown or something."
"You've got it too."
The grin vanished.
"I what?"
"Yeah." He shrugged, enjoying this more than he should. "Same spot. Right shoulder."
Brynn immediately started craning her neck, twisting her torso, trying to glimpse her own back like a dog chasing its tail. "What?! And you never told me?!"
"I thought you'd seen it." He crossed his arms, fighting a smile. "You know. With all the time you spend looking at yourself in the mirror."
"I do not—" She gave up on seeing her back and stabbed a finger at him instead. "This is betrayal, Logan. Sibling betrayal. Mother is going to hear about this."
"Mother is the one who told me you had it."
Brynn's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"I hate all of you," she announced.
He laughed—a real one this time, warm and unexpected. It startled a bird from a nearby tree.
Brynn glared at him for exactly three seconds before her own smile cracked through. She punched his arm, which hurt her more than him, and he ruffled her hair until she shrieked and ducked away.
—
"You ready?"
Logan hoisted the leather bag over his shoulders, adjusting the straps until it sat comfortable against his back. Inside: bread, dried meat, a waterskin, and a small knife his mother insisted he carry even though he'd never needed it. Provisions for a half-day's journey to a hill that probably wasn't even that old.
Beside him, Brynn carried nothing but a grin.
"Ready!"
"Hey! You two! Wait up!"
Their mother appeared in the cottage doorway, wiping flour from her hands onto her apron. She crossed the small yard in that unhurried way of hers, as if she had all the time in the world—as if moments like this weren't slipping through her fingers like river water.
She pressed an extra loaf of bread into Logan's bag, then another into Brynn's hands directly.
"For the walk," she said simply. "Fresh this morning."
Logan nodded, already planning to eat his before they reached the tree line.
Elara looked at them—her son, tall and broad-shouldered at twenty-one, a man in every way except the one that mattered most. Her daughter, eighteen now, still small enough to fit under her arm but growing faster than she wanted to admit.
"Please be careful," she said softly. "Back before dinner."
"Are you sure you don't want to come, Mom?"
She laughed—that warm sound that had always made their cottage feel like home. "I'm much too old to make that hike, I'm afraid."
"Nonsense, Mom!" Brynn looped her arm through Elara's, leaning her head against her shoulder. "You're still young. Definitely in better shape than no-brains-all-brawn over here."
She jerked her chin at Logan.
Logan set down the bag.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Brynn's eyes widened.
"Logan. Logan, no. I was joking. Logan."
He crossed the distance in two strides, one hand descending on her head like the hand of an angry god. His fingers closed around her skull—gently, but with the unmistakable promise of pressure.
"Hey, you," he said calmly.
"Ow. Ow. Ow."
"Just a little squeeze."
"Mom!"
Elara watched this with the serene expression of a woman who had witnessed approximately ten thousand similar incidents. She folded her arms. Smiled. Did nothing.
"Mom, he's killing me!"
"You're still talking," Elara observed. "So probably not."
Brynn's indignant squawk was muffled by Logan's palm.
He released her, and she stumbled back, glaring at him with all the fury her small frame could muster. It lasted approximately three seconds before her own traitorous smile broke through.
"I hate you," she announced.
"Yeah yeah."
Logan picked up his bag and settled it on his shoulders again. "We should go. Mom said before dinner."
Brynn was already backing toward the forest path, pointing at him with both hands. "This isn't over."
"It's absolutely over."
"This isn't over."
He turned to Elara, and for a moment—just a moment—his expression softened into something vulnerable. Something that belonged only to her.
"We'll be back, Mom."
She cupped his face in her warm hands, the way she'd done since he was small enough to hold. She looked into his pale grey eyes.
"I know you will."
She kissed his forehead. Then Brynn's, who had circled back for exactly that purpose.
"Go on, then." She shooed them gently. "Old Frog Hill isn't getting any younger."
Brynn grabbed Logan's arm and tugged him toward the trees. He let himself be tugged, because he always did, because she'd been doing this since she could walk and he'd never once said no.
Elara watched them go.
The forest swallowed them slowly—first their shapes, then their voices, then the last echo of Brynn's laugh.
—
"Hey." Brynn skipped to keep up with Logan's longer stride. "So. You know why it's called Old Frog Hill?"
He glanced at her sideways, one eyebrow rising. "You forgot already?"
She twisted as she walked, arms spread, absolutely unbothered. "You know me! So forgetful. Terrible memory. Tragic, really."
"Mhm."
"I could have a condition."
"You have a condition called 'talks too much and listens too little.'"
She gasped, offended, then immediately grinned because he wasn't wrong.
Logan's smirk softened into something almost fond. "You were maybe six. I took you up that hill for the first time, and you pointed at it and said—" He lowered his voice into a child's awe. "—'Logan! It looks like an old frog!'"
Brynn's eyes went wide.
"Wait."
"Two boulders for eyes, that little mound at the bottom like a tongue sticking out. You wouldn't shut up about it for weeks."
"I named it?"
"You named it."
She stopped walking.
Logan took three more steps before realizing she wasn't beside him. He turned.
Brynn stood in the middle of the path, hands pressed to her cheeks, face absolutely radiant.
"I named a hill."
"You named a hill."
"There's a hill in the world that exists because I said so."
"It existed before you."
"No. No, it didn't. It was waiting. For me." She resumed walking, but now with the strut of someone who believed she owned the world. "This is the best day of my life."
"You said that yesterday when you found an extra berry in your porridge."
"That was also a great day."
He shook his head, but the smile stayed.
—
Hours passed the way they always did when Brynn was talking—quickly, easily, like water running downhill. She filled the silence with stories, questions, observations about clouds and birds and whether squirrels had families and did Logan think they missed each other when they separated?
He answered when necessary. Grunted when possible. Smiled when she wasn't looking.
Finally, the trees began to thin.
The hill rose before them, gentle slopes climbing toward a summit that caught the afternoon light. And there—unmistakable—were the two boulders. Round. Worn. Positioned exactly like eyes watching the valley below. Below them, a small mound of earth jutted out like a frozen tongue, moss-covered and ridiculous.
It really did look like an old frog.
"There it is," Brynn breathed. "My hill."
"Our hill."
"My hill that I generously allow you to share."
Logan dropped his bag and stretched his arms overhead. The afternoon sun painted gold across his shoulders. "Food first. Then summit."
But Brynn was already running.
She tore up the slope like a child half her age, her laugh trailing behind her, her arms spread wide as if she might take flight. She reached the top and spun in a circle, taking it all in.
Logan followed at his own pace. He'd seen the view before. Dozens of times. Hundreds, maybe.
He spread the small knitted blanket—their mother's work, years old now, soft with use—and arranged the food: bread, dried meat, the extra loaf Elara had pressed into his bag. Brynn finally collapsed beside him, breathless and grinning.
"Okay," she said. "Now I'm hungry."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, looking out at the world.
The forest stretched forever, a sea of green rising and falling with the land. In the distance, mountains cut the horizon like jagged teeth, their peaks dusted with white even in summer. A river caught the light, twisting through the trees like spilled silver.
Logan chewed his bread and watched his sister.
She was turned slightly away, profile soft in the afternoon light, her dark hair escaping its braid in those same wild curls she'd had since childhood. She was pointing at something—a bird, a cloud, he didn't catch it—talking to herself the way she did when she thought no one was listening.
He realized, suddenly, that he'd spent most of his life looking after her.
She was the joy to his serious glares. The way she wrinkled her nose when she laughed. The way she bit her lip when she was thinking. The way she said his name—Lo-gan—stretching it out when she wanted something.
Chores. Hunting. Training. Those were things he did because he had to.
This—sitting on a hill with his sister, watching clouds, eating bread his mother baked—this was the thing he would choose.
Every time.s