The night had teeth.
It bit at their lips and burned their lungs with every breath. The cold pressed in from every side, cruel and unending, gnawing through cloth and flesh alike. Their boots crunched through the snow—each step heavier than the last, each exhale a thin veil of frost that hung in the air for too long before fading.
They had been walking for hours. The moon was a pale smear behind clouds that refused to move, and the world was nothing but white and shadow.
Anisda led them, silent, his eyes darting left, right, forward—always forward. His senses were stretched thin, his ears tuned to every sigh of wind and whisper beneath the snow. Behind him, he could hear their shivers—the sound of teeth knocking together, of labored breath.
Thalia's steps faltered. Her cloak—his cloak—dragged in the snow. Her breath came out in small gasps.
Anisda slowed, softening. For a moment, he looked back at her. Her face was pale, her lips trembling, the flame of her red hair dulled by frost. He looked down, then up again, scanning the horizon.
Ahead loomed a forest—tall, black trees rising like pillars against the dim sky. The snow beneath their boughs was thinner, the ground darker, less cruel.
"To the trees," he said suddenly, voice deep but calm. "Through the forest—the snow will be lighter there."
They all looked up, eyes hollow, exhaustion etched into their faces. William's jaw clenched against the cold; Vincent's nose was red, his usual smirk buried somewhere under fatigue.
Anisda saw it then—the realization that none of them would last another hour out here. Not even Thalia.
He led them into the forest. The moment they passed the tree line, the wind died. The silence was thicker here, the darkness near complete.
Anisda stopped. Without a word, he broke a low branch from a pine, stripped away the needles, and tore a long strip from his undershirt—not his cloak, for that was wrapped around Thalia. He crouched, digging into the snow with bare hands until he found two stones. Striking them together, sparks flared.
A flame caught. He fed it to the cloth. The torch came alive, a fragile, flickering glow in the endless dark.
He repeated the process, crafting two more. He handed one to Vincent.
Vincent exhaled through a laugh. "Remind me never to mock you again."
William nodded in silent thanks, his face lit by the orange glow.
When Anisda handed the final torch to Thalia, their fingers brushed.
Her breath caught. His hand was like ice—colder than the air itself. She looked up at him, eyes searching. His lids were half-lowered, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, his gaze softened.
She wanted to ask—what are you?—but before she could speak, he turned away, eyes fixed deeper into the forest.
Then he froze.
He tilted his head slightly. His entire body stilled, like a wolf catching scent.
Thalia saw it—the way his muscles tensed, the faint twitch in his jaw.
"What is it?" she whispered.
He didn't answer immediately. Then, quietly: "Something's coming. Behind me. Get back."
They obeyed, stepping behind him, torches raised. The night was still, too still. Then—footsteps. One from the right. Another from the left. One fast. The other… deliberate.
"It's two people," Anisda muttered.
"People?" Vincent's voice cracked through the silence.
"They're flanking us," he said, low and sharp.
Before anyone could speak, the air split with a whistle.
An axe flew out of the dark from Anisda's right, spinning fast, slicing through the cold with a shriek. He ducked, the blade missing his head by an inch. It flew past, glinting orange in the torchlight—carved with strange symbols he recognized instantly.
The axe wasn't meant for him.
A scream came from somewhere in the dark to his left. Then silence.
Anisda's voice thundered, deeper than they'd ever heard it. "Forward!"
It wasn't a suggestion. It was a command that stirred something primal in all of them.
William grabbed Thalia's hand. Vincent didn't even argue. They ran—snow flying, hearts pounding, torches flaring behind them as they vanished between the trees.
Anisda stayed.
He dropped low, one hand brushing the snow, the other clenched tight. The forest was breathing—slow, heavy, alive.
Footsteps again. Light. Calm. From the left.
Then a voice—a woman's voice—soft but commanding.
"What have you done, Anisda?"
He straightened, chest rising and falling. "Is it still out there?"
"My axe caught it," she said. "It bleeds."
He tilted his head, listening. In the distance, a faint rustle. Running. The sound was moving away—but toward the direction Thalia had gone.
His jaw tightened.
The woman moved—too fast to see, only the blur of her cloak, the faint shimmer of light on her hair. She darted after the sound, silent as smoke.
Anisda straightened fully now, eyes narrowing.
He watched the forest swallow her and muttered, almost to himself,
"I hope you're ready for this, Thalia."
The torchlight flickered against his face—sharp cheekbones, eyes cold as iron. Behind him, the forest stretched wide and dark, waiting for whatever would come next.
And far ahead, where the trees grew thicker, the wind carried faint echoes—Thalia's voice, calling, unaware of who hunted in the dark.