The fire burned low, a lazy ribbon of smoke curling toward the patched wood of the roof. I fed it one last branch and listened to the hiss of sap. The hatchling, my female hatchling now upon closer look, had fallen asleep against my wrist, her tiny sides rising and falling in quick, birdlike rhythms.
I eased her closer to the heat and studied her in the flickering light. Each damp protofeather was beginning to dry to the softness of fur. Faint blue speckles shimmered when the flames licked brighter on the top part of her body as her tail twitched in dreams.
I remembered the clearing where I had found the egg, the scent of charred leaves and feathers scattered like torn fabric, the silence where life had been once. My jaw tightened, whoever had raided that nest had taken everything except her. Gently, I touched the little fluff on her head that would one day grow into a proud little mane. "You're a stubborn one," I whispered to her, "that's the only reason you're here."
Her eyes fluttered open, emerald catching the firelight like sea glass. She gave a soft trill, half-asleep, and nestled deeper into my sleeve. Something inside me ached with a fierce, unexpected protectiveness. I had come into these woods to live apart from the world's cruelties. Yet here was a life that needed guarding, and I could not turn away.
Snow tapped its quiet rhythm against the tent-cabin walls. I set a small pot of broth on the stones, more for the comfort of its steam than any hunger of my own, and sat back against the cedar post I had driven years ago. Outside, the forest whispered, a low endless murmur of pine and frozen stream. Inside, her tiny warmth seeped through my coat, a heartbeat against my skin.
"I'll keep you safe," I promised to the hush, to the night, to her. The words settled into the dim cabin like a vow etched in stone.
The hatchling gave one last sigh and drifted fully into sleep. I drew the blanket higher, banked the fire to embers, and let my eyes close. For the first time in many seasons, I dreamed not of solitude, but of the fragile weight of hope curled in the crook of my arm.
...
The night after the hatching passed in a blur of half-sleep and firelight. Each time the logs settled with a crack, I startled awake, convinced the tiny heartbeat tucked against my chest had vanished like a dream. But each time I checked, there she was, curled like a damp ember in the nest of my cloak, breathing in delicate puffs of steam.
By morning the forest lay buried beneath a hush of new snow. A pearly light seeped through the tent's patched seams, turning the air a soft silver. She stirred at the change, blinking her emerald eyes, a thin ribbon of sound escaping her throat, half trill, half squeak. I smiled before I could stop myself, "hungry, are you?"
I had prepared for this, though I had never quite believed the moment would arrive. From a pouch near the fire I drew the strips of smoked river-fish I had dried weeks ago. She tilted her narrow head, nostrils twitching, and gave a small, impatient chirp. "Patience," I teased, tearing off a fragment no larger than my thumbnail which I laid across my palm and waited. Her snout darted forward with surprising speed. A warm and rough tongue brushed my skin as the morsel vanished. A pleased rattle bubbled from her chest, an odd, miniature sounding purr. "That's better," I whispered, feeding her again. Each bite she took felt like a promise, one I hadn't known I was ready to make.
Later, when the sun stood pale and low, I carried her outside for the first time. The cold pinched my cheeks; the snow squeaked beneath my boots. She clung to the crook of my arm at first, startled by the glittering brightness of the white blanket all around. Then, catching the glint of light off the snow, she stretched her neck, letting out a curious warble.
"All right," I said while kneeling down, "your turn." I set her gently on the soft powdered snow. She wobbled, claws splaying wide, short tail flicking for balance. For an instant she looked ready to topple, then steadied herself with trembling but sure legs. A laugh escaped me, loud in the stillness. "Look at you," I breathed, "braver than I thought you could be."
She took two tentative steps, leaving delicate four-toed prints in the pristine surface, then turned her bright eyes back to me, as if to say, *did you see?* "Yes," I whispered, my chest tightening with a strange, fierce pride, "I see you."
The forest around us held its breath. Snow-laden pines bent beneath the weight of silence, and the cold air rustled sharply. In that quiet, something settled between us, an unspoken pact, as natural and unyielding as the winter itself.