The world breathed slow.
A long, invisible breath, stretching across the snow-blanketed forest like a warning too old to hear.
Everything was still.The trees stood motionless beneath thick coats of frost, their branches rigid and slick with ice. The frozen lake ahead of him didn't move. It never did. It just sat there, wide and cracked like a scar on the skin of the earth.
And beneath a shallow ridge of snow, half-buried, unmoving — he waited.
His body was numb. His thoughts were slower than they should be.The leather of his gloves had frozen stiff, cracking faintly every time he breathed. His fingertips were gone, stolen by the cold hours ago. So were his toes. Maybe they'd come back. Maybe not.Didn't matter.
He didn't move.
Not yet.
His bow was half-drawn. A black-fletched arrow rested between his fingers, the point angled down toward the ground.His breath was shallow, barely misting the air.Every sense was narrowed, sharpened to a single point.The bait.
A rabbit's carcass, half-buried near the edge of the lake.He'd cut it open himself. Split it clean down the middle and poured the mixture inside.Guts, mostly. Mixed with old bile, a burnt herb paste, and something black and tar-thick he'd stolen from the village healer's bag.
The smell alone made him gag.It clung to the inside of his nose like hot ash. He'd vomited the first time. Almost.
But it had worked.
He knew it had the moment the wind shifted.
The forest changed.
It wasn't sound. Not quite.It was pressure. A quiet shift in the snow. Like something big had exhaled behind the trees and the world had flinched.
He narrowed his eyes.There — movement. Between two dark trunks. A shadow sliding low and slow through the undergrowth. Too smooth for a bear. Too heavy for a deer.
Then it stepped into the clearing.
A wolf.
But not a normal one.
Larger.Starved-looking, but powerful.Its limbs were long, its flanks sunken, and its fur — gods, that fur — was thick, wild, half-matted with frozen clumps of snow and old blood. Its breath came in clouds. Its yellow eyes reflected the light like frost catching on steel.
It was silent.
"Beautiful bastard…" he whispered.
It crept closer to the carcass, slowly, testing the air.
He adjusted his grip on the bow.
"One more step. Just one."
His fingers were cramping.He ignored it. His eyes locked onto the wolf's left eye — black, wet, alive.No armor there. No fur. Just soft flesh.
His heart beat once.He loosed the string.
The arrow hissed through the cold.
The impact was wet.A crunch of bone.The wolf reeled back, snarling, one eye suddenly gone — reduced to blood and pulp. It let out a sound that made the back of his neck crawl. A scream half-choked by rage.
"Yes."
He nocked a second arrow.Fast. Quick. Clean.
The wolf wasn't down.
It turned.
Their eyes met.
Then it came.
No hesitation. No limping. Just pure speed.
"Oh, shit—"
He fired again.The second arrow struck low, biting into one of the front legs. The beast faltered for half a step, stumbled — then kept coming. Slower, but not by much.
He dropped the bow, rolled sideways into the snow. White powder exploded around him. The wolf's jaws snapped shut a breath from his shoulder.
He felt its heat.Smelled the rot in its breath.His fingers closed around the hilt of his dagger.
Steel met bone.
He raised the blade just in time.The wolf lunged again. Its teeth slammed into the edge of his dagger, snarling and clawing. Its weight crashed against him — too strong, too close.
He screamed through his teeth, twisted the dagger, and drove it upward.Once.Twice.Into the side. Into the ribs.
Hot blood spilled down his glove.Thick. Sticky. Reeking of iron.
The beast howled.
He shoved it off, rolled again, came up crouched and wild-eyed.
The wolf staggered. Bled.Its one good eye blinked slowly.
Then it collapsed.
The sound it made was low. Final.
Silence followed.Real silence.
He stood there, panting, dagger in hand, staring at the body.
His arm throbbed.His chest burned.But he was alive.
Barely.
He stepped closer, watching the fur twitch one last time.
"That all you had?" he muttered.
His voice was raw. It sounded too loud in the empty clearing.
He crouched, pressing a gloved hand to the wolf's flank. Blood seeped through his palm.Still warm. Still fresh.
"Hope you were closer to awakening than I am," he said quietly. "Otherwise that was a waste."
He sat back in the snow, spine hitting the base of a tree.
The cold crept in immediately.The pain came next. His body screamed in places he didn't know could hurt.
He closed his eyes. Exhaled slowly.
Then… he felt it.
A spark.Somewhere deep. A flicker behind the ribs.
It wasn't warm. Not yet.But it was there.
His eyes opened again.
And in the dead stillness of the frostbitten world, he smiled.
Just barely.
****
The silence after a kill was never peaceful.It was thick. Heavy with blood that didn't spill. With death that nearly happened.
He dragged the wolf by its hind legs, pulling the dead weight across the hard snow. Blood had frozen into the fur in jagged black streaks, stiffening the corpse like a frost-covered statue.
"You're not done being a pain in the ass, are you?"
Each step sent a jolt through his shoulders. He gritted his teeth, rounded the slope, and reached the edge of the lake — where his sled waited.
A crude platform mounted on old metal runners, tied with rope and stubbornness.
He tilted the body up, grunted, and shoved it onto the sled with a thud that made the whole frame creak.
"There. Better than dragging you through town."
He tied the hind legs, double-knotted the chest, checked everything twice. Then he turned back toward the clearing.
The rabbit was still there — half-rotted, half-frozen, the stench clinging to the air like oil.
"You did your job," he muttered.
He crouched, dug into the snow with stiff fingers, tearing through ice and frozen dirt. The earth bit into his skin, numbing what was left of his sense of touch.
When the hole was deep enough, he shoved the rabbit in, packed the snow back on top, and pressed down.
"No scent. No evidence."
He stood, wiped his palms on his trousers, and returned to the sled.
"Time to go home."
The sled groaned behind him, trailing a long line through the snow. Each step was an effort. The harness pulled at his waist, the body shifted with every jolt.
The wind was quiet. The cold was not.
It pressed against his face, slipped down his collar, chewed at the tips of his ears.
No birds. No branches. Just the sound of his boots and his own breath, fading into fog with every exhale.
Then, finally—He saw it.
The village.
Built where the cliffs met the sea, it clung to the rock like a stubborn scar.Roofs of dark wood, steep and heavy with snow. Chimneys bleeding slow ribbons of smoke into the sky. Netting hung between beams. Frost-covered ropes. Lanterns with dying flames.
A black dog barked somewhere.A hammer rang.Voices murmured.
It was still alive. Somehow.
But he didn't go toward it.
Instead, he turned toward a path slightly off to the side, curving up along a ridge. And there, at the end of that path, stood his house.
Not a shack.
A real house.Built beam by beam, over two brutal winters.Thick timber walls, sealed with resin and layered fur. A pitched roof, tight and dry. Reinforced shutters. Iron-banded doors.A stone chimney. A woodpile stacked tight beside the entrance.
It was plain.But it stood firm.
"Still holding together," he muttered. "Guess that makes two of us."
He dragged the sled around the side, reached the smaller door that led into his workshop.
The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. Not warm — but still. Dry.
Tools hung from the walls. Knives, hooks, bone saws, whetstones.A long butcher's table stood at the center. Two heavy iron hooks hung from the ceiling beam, swaying slightly.
He wrestled the body off the sled and onto the floor with a grunt.
"You're heavier dead than you were trying to eat me alive."
He looped a cord around the wolf's hind legs, lifted with both arms, and hoisted the carcass upward, latching it onto the hooks.It swayed slightly, tongue lolling, eyes glazed and half-frozen.The blood had begun to crust.
He stepped back and looked at it.
Beautiful. Even now.
"Alright, let's make you useful."
He selected his favorite knife — long, curved, freshly honed. Ran a finger across the blade.
"Sharp enough to make you regret things."
Then he got to work.
He began with the throat, slicing down the middle in a clean line.The fur parted. Steam rose in faint wisps.The scent was thick — copper, meat, sweat, cold.
His face tightened, but he didn't gag.
He peeled the skin back slowly, working around the legs, the belly, the flanks.His hands moved with patience. Confidence. The knife slipped between layers like a whisper. Sometimes it caught. Sometimes it stuck. But he adjusted. Corrected.
Talked to himself, mostly.
"Could've been cleaner. Yeah. But at least I didn't get gutted."
The pelt peeled off in heavy folds, falling to the table in a wet slap.He folded it over itself. Would need curing. Could make good lining. Maybe gloves.
Then came the gutting.He opened the belly slowly, careful not to puncture anything.
A wave of warmth and stench hit him. Thick and raw.He breathed through his mouth, jaw tight.
He removed the organs one by one.Heart. Liver. Kidneys.He inspected each, nodded when satisfied, and dropped them into a ceramic jar.
"Good heart. You ran hard."He paused. "Shame it wasn't enough."
He cut away the stomach. The intestines. Sorted what was usable from what was waste.
Once it was clean, he packed the cavity with snow. Let it set.
The final step took time.An hour, maybe more.
He carved the meat with slow, sure strokes. Shoulders first. Then the back. The legs.Muscle came away from bone in clean slabs.Every tendon cut. Every joint split.Every piece handled with care.
He laid the good meat on a board near the door. The air outside was cold enough to preserve it for weeks.The rest, he stored in waxed cloth or sealed jars.
When he finally stopped, the skeleton was bare.Picked clean.Bones white and glistening in the pale light.
He wiped his hands on a cloth, rolled his shoulders.His entire body ached.
"Not bad. Could've been messier."
He cleaned the knife, laid it back in its place, and opened the main door of the house.
Warmth hit him like a silent wave.
The hearth was glowing. A low fire pulsed in the stone pit, throwing orange shadows across the wooden floor.Fur rugs. Heavy furniture. A single, handmade bed tucked in the corner.Shelves lined with herbs, tools, and small trinkets collected over seasons of solitude.
His home. His fortress.
He stepped inside, shut the door behind him.
Silence. Thick and deep.
He peeled off his gloves, flexed his fingers. Sat down in his creaking chair.
"Not exactly a feast," he said aloud. "But it's more than most have."
He leaned back, letting the heat sink into his bones.
"I'm not dead. I've got meat. And the roof's still holding."
He smirked.
"Call it a win."
And for a night — just one — that was enough.