A cold dawn veiled the forest in a clinging, damp fog that settled on their clothes like tiny diamonds of dew. The silence was ringing, almost unnatural, broken only by the crunch of twigs underfoot and Ulvia's ragged breathing. The four friends walked along a barely visible animal trail, venturing deeper into the Whispering Trunk Forest. The air was a mix of excitement and nervous tension—today, they were going on their first real hunt.
The idea had come from Miss Elira. Supplies at the orphanage were dwindling, and there was still a week until the next delivery from benefactors. "The world won't spoon-feed you," she had said the day before, handing Kaedan a few homemade snares and a blunted hunting knife. "If you want to eat, learn to provide. But remember—you're a team. If one is lost, you're all lost."
Kaedan walked first, his shoulders tense under his rough canvas jacket. From time to time, he clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling the dull, dormant response of his Spirit under his skin. He knew he couldn't use it openly—the noise and energy surge would scare off all the game in the area—but the very thought that in case of danger he could protect his own gave him confidence. His red hair, matted with moisture, seemed darker than usual.
Behind him, creeping like a shadow, moved Ulvia. Her green eyes, usually so lively and mischievous, now scanned the surroundings with incredible concentration. She wasn't looking for an animal—she was reading the forest the way Gil read her books. Trampled grass at the roots of an oak, a tuft of gray fur on a thorny bush, a barely perceptible scent—for her, these weren't just signs, but a whole story. "A fox passed here," she whispered, "recently, an hour ago. And here... rabbits. Several of them, they were feeding in this clearing."
Gil brought up the rear, her attentive gaze noting every fork in the path, every noticeable stone. In her head, she was building a map of their route, mentally marking points for the way back. In one hand, she clutched a sturdy stick—both for support on slippery slopes and in case she had to defend herself. Her practical mind was already calculating risks: the depth of the forest, the chance of encountering a wolf, a sudden change in weather. "We shouldn't go further than a mile and a half from the orphanage," she said quietly to Kaedan. "Otherwise, we might get lost on the way back."
And between them, in the safest spot, walked Dur. His usually pale face was bluish-pale from the cold and inner tension. He wasn't afraid of the forest—the dense thickets and solid ground underfoot gave him a strange feeling of security. His fear, ancient and irrational, waited for him ahead. At the forest's edge, he had heard—not with his ears, but with his whole being—the distant but relentless sound of the Swift Creek. With every step, this sound grew, turning from a whisper into an obsessive hum that grated on his nerves. Silently, he squeezed Kaedan's hand behind his back, and Kaedan, without turning, gave a short nod to let him know it was okay.
Their first target was a small clearing that Ulvia had identified as a frequent visiting spot for a rabbit family. While Kaedan and Dur examined the snares—flimsy loops of hemp rope—Gil set up an observation post at the edge of the clearing, and Ulvia, squatting down, began to scatter bait—a few carrot ends, carefully saved from the previous dinner.
"Like this," Kaedan instructed in a whisper, helping Dur secure the loop on a flexible young sapling. "The trigger stick goes here. If an animal gets caught, it will release the sapling and lift it. The main thing is to do everything quietly."
Dur nodded, his fingers, despite the cold, were surprisingly deft and precise. Working with his hands calmed him, distracted him from the obsessive hum of the water. He focused on tying knots, and Kaedan clapped him approvingly on the shoulder.
They set the first snare by the rabbit trail, the second near a burrow under the roots of an old spruce. Spirits were high, almost playful. It seemed like just a little more, and the prey would walk right into their hands. But the forest taught them its first lesson—a lesson in patience.
They sat in ambush for over an hour, freezing and growing stiff from immobility. The rabbits, smart and cautious, gave their traps a wide berth. One, fluffy and gray, even approached the carrot, sniffed it from a safe distance, and calmly disappeared into the bushes. Ulvia was almost in tears from frustration.
"It's not working," Gil whispered tiredly, rubbing her stiff knees. "They can smell us. We either wait until evening or change tactics."
"Change tactics," Kaedan decided without hesitation. "We can't wait until evening. Elira will worry."
Their gazes turned towards the sound of the river. To bypass the deep ravine, along the bottom of which ran a stream feeding into the Creek, they would either have to make a long detour or cross it via a wobbly log thrown from one bank to the other.
"I... I can do it," Dur said quietly but firmly, before anyone could suggest anything. He looked at that log, covered in moss and slick with moisture, as if it were an instrument of torture. Below, several meters down, icy water babbled and foamed, sparkling with black and white glints in the morning sun. His heart was pounding in his throat.
"We can all do it," Kaedan placed a hand on his shoulder. "I'll go first. Then Ulvia, then Gil, and you'll go after her. We'll cover each other."
The crossing became their hardest trial of the day. Kaedan crossed confidently, arms spread wide for balance. Ulvia practically flew across, light and weightless. Gil moved slowly, methodically, choosing each step. Then came Dur's turn.
He froze at the edge, unable to tear his gaze from the water below. It seemed to him that the log was swaying, that the mist over the water was condensing into the familiar shapes from his nightmares. He broke out in a sweat, despite the cold.
"Dur," Gil called softly from the other bank. "Don't look down. Look at me."
"Breathe," Kaedan added. "Like Elira taught us. Deeply."
Dur closed his eyes, took a short, ragged breath, then another, deeper one. He remembered the cool solidity of the checker pieces, Aunt Marina's calm voice, the warmth of Kaedan's shoulder next to him in their room. This was his forest. His friends. His hunt. He opened his eyes, stared at the back of Gil's head waiting for him on the opposite bank, and took the first step.
The log swayed under him, and he almost fell, but at the last moment managed to keep his balance. One step. Another step. Each was like a feat. The water below roared now only for him, calling, beckoning into its icy embrace. But he walked. Five steps. Six. Ten. And then Kaedan's strong hand grabbed his jacket, pulling him onto solid, safe ground.
He stood there, breathing heavily, trembling all over, but on his face, for the first time that day, appeared something remotely resembling a smile. He hadn't conquered his fear, no. But he had walked through it.
Their reward awaited them on the other side of the ravine. On a new, narrower trail, Ulvia discovered fresh, still-moist tracks—a whole family of rabbits. And this time, their plan worked flawlessly. While Ulvia and Gil distracted the animals, carefully approaching from downwind, Kaedan and Dur set the final snare in a narrow passage between two boulders.
They heard a sharp, desperate squeal, the crackle of branches, and the metallic snap of the sprung sapling. When they ran up, a large, spotted rabbit was hanging from the end of the rope, struggling frantically.
An instant, deafening silence descended. The excitement of success gave way to a strange, heavy emptiness. They looked at the warm, quivering bundle of life that had been running free moments before, now thrashing in the noose. This wasn't a game. This was reality.
Kaedan approached first. His face was stone. He drew his knife. His hand didn't tremble as he delivered a quick, precise blow, ending the animal's suffering. He did what a leader had to do, taking the weight of that act upon himself.
They walked back in silence. Kaedan carried the carcass, wrapped in a large burdock leaf. Dur carried the coiled snares. Ulvia walked without lifting her eyes from the ground. Gil once again mentally traced her map, but this time it was marked not only with landmarks, but with the weight of a first moral choice.
At the entrance to the orphanage, Miss Elira was waiting for them. She said nothing, just looked intently at their serious faces, aged in a single morning, at the bloody bundle in Kaedan's hands, at Dur's pale but resolute face.
"Wash your hands," was all she said in an ordinary tone. "Lunch will be soon."
That evening, the meat soup tasted like the most delicious thing they'd ever eaten. But the taste was bitter and had changed them forever. They had procured food. They had walked through fear. They had made a difficult choice. Their childhood, with its innocent games, remained there, in the forest, on both banks of that river. And they had taken their first, uncertain step into adult life.