The lean-to collapsed while he was still inside it.
His body, wedged against the oak's trunk in that familiar cramped position, didn't stir at the soft crack. His eyelids only fluttered when leaves began to shower his face. By the time his sleeping mind registered something was wrong, the entire structure had given up its tenuous grip on existence, the framework folding inward like it had been waiting for permission to finally die.
Ian rolled sideways on instinct as it all fell down, the pole clutched against his chest, his shoulder slamming into ground that was suddenly exposed to open air. A branch caught him across the back—not hard enough to injure but enough to make him grunt. The framework that had been shelter for over a week now lay scattered across the grass in a pathetic heap of decomposing leaves and broken wood.
He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, breathing hard, his heart hammering from the sudden violence of waking. The clearing was still dark—that deep pre-dawn black where shapes existed only as suggestions. But he could make out the cabin walls across the open space, rising well above head height now.
Ian looked at the collapsed lean-to. The branches lay in a tangle, the leaves that had provided minimal cover now just mulch on the ground. The oak still stood solid, indifferent to the fact that the structure that had leaned against it no longer existed.
Good riddance.
The thought surfaced with surprising vehemence. That thing had been torture from day one—cramped, cold, his back developing a permanent curve from the position it forced on him. He'd woken up every morning with his joints screaming protest, his spine feeling like someone had been using it for hammer practice. Sleeping in that pathetic excuse for shelter had been barely better than sleeping on open ground.
The cabin had walls now. No roof yet, but the walls would block wind at least. And the space inside was large enough that he could actually stretch out instead of curling into a ball against tree bark.
Tonight. He'd sleep in the cabin tonight. The lean-to's collapse had made that decision for him, and honestly? He wasn't going to miss it.
Ian grabbed the pole and stood, his body protesting the movement with that familiar chorus of aches that meant another day of brutal labor awaited. The thoughts from yesterday still lurked at the edges of his awareness, trying to pull him back into that spiral about isolation and loneliness and how long he'd been trapped here.
No. Not going there. Not today.
He forced his mind toward practical concerns instead. The hide was finished—dark leather draped over the log, ready to be turned into something useful. The cabin walls were tall enough for roof construction. The fish trap would be full again. All concrete problems with concrete solutions.
Focus on the next task. That was how he'd survived this long. Not by dwelling on things he couldn't change, but by identifying what needed doing and doing it. The pole made almost everything possible if he could just keep his brain from spiraling into useless territory.
The roof. That was next. The walls were finally high enough that building upward made sense. Rafters and crossbeams and whatever went on top to actually keep rain from pouring directly onto his head while he slept. The knowledge was there, waiting to be accessed—construction techniques that would turn four walls into actual shelter.
But first he needed to eat. His stomach cramped at the thought, that hollow ache reminding him he'd barely consumed enough calories yesterday to justify the labor he'd demanded from his body. The fish trap would have more. Protein to fuel whatever fresh hell today decided to throw at him.
Breakfast was the same fish that he has had for the last week. He has really gotten good at this and numb at the whole killing a thing for food but whatever.
The fish cooked and he ate standing up, barely letting them cool. His body accepted the fuel without enthusiasm, just taking what it needed to keep functioning. All fillets disappeared in minutes, and the hollow ache in his stomach transformed into something approaching functional.
Time to start on the roof. The knowledge stirred as he approached the structure, information flooding in about rafter construction and load distribution and how to create a framework that wouldn't collapse the first time wind hit it. His head filled with measurements and angles, with techniques for joining wood that would hold under stress.
The pole warmed in his grip, ready to become whatever tool the task demanded.
Ian looked up at the open sky above the cabin walls, at the space that needed to be closed before winter made sleeping under stars a death sentence.
He needed rafters first. Long poles that would span the width of the cabin, creating the framework everything else would rest on. The knowledge showed him the pattern—pairs of rafters meeting at a central ridge, angled to shed water, spaced close enough to support whatever roofing material he could manage.
The pole became an axe before he'd consciously decided to transform it, the metal flowing into that familiar weight as he headed for the tree line. The pines he'd been harvesting from still had suitable candidates—younger trees with straight trunks, the right diameter for what he needed.
The first tree fell quickly, the axe blade biting through wood like it was rotted instead of solid. Ian worked through the delimbing with mechanical efficiency, his hands moving through motions that had become automatic. Strip the branches. Peel the bark. Cut to length. The pole shifted between configurations as needed—saw, knife, measuring rod that somehow knew exactly how long each piece needed to be.
He needed... the knowledge crystallized with sudden clarity. Six rafters. Three pairs that would meet at the ridge and extend down to rest on the walls. Plus a ridge beam to connect them at the peak. Plus crossbeams to stabilize the whole structure so it didn't fold like a house of cards under the weight.
The calculations made his head hurt. He'd never built anything more complex than that fish trap before the pole had started teaching him. Never worked with angles and load distribution and structural engineering. But his hands knew what to do even when his conscious mind felt lost.
The first rafter took shape under his ministrations—a straight pole maybe twelve feet long, one end notched to sit on the wall, the other cut at an angle that would mate with its partner at the ridge. He set it aside and started on the second, his body settling into that rhythm where thought became unnecessary and motion took over.
By the time the sun had climbed past its peak, he had all six rafters prepared and laid out on the ground. The ridge beam sat beside them—a longer pole that would run the length of the cabin, connecting all three rafter pairs. His shoulders burned despite the pole doing most of the work. The repetitive motion of sawing and cutting had left his forearms cramping.
But now came the hard part. Getting the rafters up onto the walls and secured in place. The walls stood over his head—he'd need to lift each rafter above his own height, position it precisely, hold it steady while securing it.
The ridge beam had to go up first. Ian grabbed one end and lifted, the pole's assistance making the weight effortless as the pole shouldered the weight of the wood. He positioned a temporary support post—a straight branch wedged into the ground inside the cabin—and rested the ridge beam on top of it at roughly the right height. Then he did the same at the other end, creating a crude framework that held the beam suspended above the walls.
The beam sat there, wobbling slightly, clearly unstable but holding for now. Good enough. It just needed to stay in place long enough for him to attach the rafters.
Ian grabbed the first rafter pair and carried them inside the cabin walls. The space felt smaller with the ridge beam suspended overhead, the shadows deeper. He positioned the first rafter with its notched end resting on the wall, the angled end reaching up toward the ridge beam. The pole became cordage—strong twisted fiber that appeared from nothing—and he lashed the rafter to the beam with movements the knowledge guided.
The second rafter went up on the opposite wall, its angled end meeting its partner at the ridge. More cordage, more lashing, the two pieces of wood forming that distinctive peaked shape. When he stepped back, the first rafter pair stood on its own, creating an A-frame that suddenly made the whole cabin look different. More intentional. More like actual architecture instead of just stacked logs.
The second pair went up easier—his body had found the rhythm, understood the angles. Lift, position, lash. The rafter ends met at the ridge beam with that same peaked configuration. Two A-frames now, spaced along the cabin's length, the ridge beam connecting them.
The third pair fought him more than the others. The angle was wrong somehow, the notched end not sitting flush against the wall. Ian had to adjust it twice before the fit was right, his arms trembling from holding the weight overhead. But finally it locked into place, and he lashed it to the ridge beam with cordage that his hands tied without conscious thought.
Three A-frames now. The skeleton of a roof taking shape above the cabin walls. Ian stepped outside to examine his work, and something in his chest loosened slightly at the sight. It looked like a building. Actually looked like shelter instead of just an ambitious pile of logs.
But the framework was only half the job. He still needed crossbeams to stabilize everything, to prevent the rafters from spreading under load. And then he needed something to actually cover the damn thing—some kind of material that would shed water instead of letting it pour through onto his head.
The crossbeams went up faster than the rafters had. Shorter poles lashed horizontally across the rafters, creating a grid that locked everything together. Each one he added made the structure more rigid, more permanent. By the time the sun was descending toward the tree line, the roof framework stood complete—a peaked structure that cast geometric shadows across the cabin floor.
Ian sat inside the walls and looked up at the lattice of wood above him. His arms felt like they might fall off. His shoulders burned with that deep ache that suggested he'd be paying for this tomorrow. But he had a roof frame. Actual progress toward not dying of exposure when winter really hit.
The hide caught his eye where it still lay draped over the log outside. Dark leather, supple and ready. He'd been so focused on the roof that he'd almost forgotten about it. But now, with the immediate construction work done for the day, his mind drifted toward the pelt and what the hell he was supposed to do with it.
Clothing. Obviously. His current outfit was disintegrating more each day—the jeans torn and stained beyond recognition, his shirt more holes than fabric at this point. The hide could become pants, maybe. Or a shirt. Something that would actually protect him from the elements instead of just suggesting the concept of coverage.
But as he stared at the leather, calculations started forming in his head that he didn't want to examine too closely. One hide. Maybe four feet by three feet of usable material. Enough for... what? Pants required two legs worth of fabric, plus material for the waist and seams. A shirt needed even more—front panel, back panel, sleeves.
One hide wasn't going to be enough. Not even close.
The knowledge stirred, showing him pattern layouts, how to maximize material usage, where cuts needed to be made. His mind filled with measurements and shapes, with the reality that making actual clothing would require multiple hides worked together.
Two hides minimum for a basic outfit. Probably three to be safe, to have enough material for proper construction instead of just crude wrapping. And that was assuming he didn't screw up the cutting, didn't waste material on mistakes his inexperienced hands would inevitably make.
Three more deer. At least. He will need more for a coat for when winter really hit, and blankets, and backup clothing for when the first set wore out.
His stomach twisted. The meat problem reared its head again—that same impossible calculation he'd been trying to ignore. Three deer meant six hundred pounds of meat or more. Way more than he could possibly eat before it spoiled. The jerky had proven that. He'd barely processed one animal before scavengers had helped themselves.
But the alternative was what? Freeze to death in disintegrating rags because he was too squeamish to waste meat? That seemed like a stupid way to die.
Ian's jaw clenched as he stared at the hide. Winter clothing wasn't optional. It was survival. If that meant hunting deer primarily for their pelts and dealing with the meat waste as best he could, then that's what it meant. The forest would reclaim whatever he couldn't use. Scavengers would feast. The cycle would continue without him. He will just need to make sure the meat spoils away from his construction site.
Three more deer. That's what he needed. Which meant three more hunts, three more kills, three more rounds of that entire exhausting process—stalking, butchering, hide processing. Days of work for each animal.
The thought made exhaustion press down on him with physical weight. He'd barely survived tanning this one hide. The constant labor, the sleep deprivation, the endless cycle of tasks that couldn't be delayed or delegated. And now he needed to do it three more times?
Ian moaned in frustration, the sound scraping out of his throat raw and defeated. His body dragged itself upright, joints protesting with that familiar chorus of aches that never seemed to fade anymore. He didn't want to think about it right now. Now he just wanted dinner.
His body was on autopilot, he has done this so many time so frequently that it didn't even register in his mind. He just knew that his feet were disgusting and wet and he now he had fish fillets.
Back at the clearing, he built up the fire without really seeing what he was doing. Bow drill. Ember. Flames. The motions flowed together into a blur of muscle memory. Stones positioned at the fire's edge. Heat building. The first fillets laid across the hot surface, the smell hitting him immediately—fish and smoke and that savory richness his body craved even when his mind was too exhausted to care.
Ian turned away while they cooked, his eyes drifting toward the cabin. The roof framework cast shadows across the interior, those geometric patterns that suggested actual shelter instead of just walls. But the floor was bare earth—packed dirt that would turn to mud the first time rain got in. He needed something. Leaves maybe? Pine needles? Some kind of layer between him and the cold ground that would make sleeping in there less miserable than the lean-to had been. At least until he got a solid floor in their.
His gaze moved toward the forest edge, already cataloguing which trees dropped the most needles, where he could gather material without—
The sound cut through his thoughts. That distinctive tearing noise. Wet flesh being ripped apart.
Ian spun around.
It sat their by the fire like it was about to toast marshmallow and sing campfire song. It was that same eagle from a few days ago, its massive body hunched over the fillets he'd just laid out. That wicked curved beak tore into the fish with methodical efficiency, each pull bringing up chunks of meat that disappeared down its throat in sharp backward jerks. Three fillets were already gone. The bird was working on the fourth, completely unconcerned with his presence.
It was stealing his food… AGAIN!!!!
"Get the fuck away from my food!"
The words came out as a roar, his voice cracking with rage he didn't know he'd been holding as he fact he had not spoken it days became apparent. The eagle's head snapped up, those yellow eyes locking onto him with that same predator assessment as before. The crest feathers rose, making it look even larger.
For a heartbeat they stared at each other. Then Ian was moving.
He didn't think about it. Didn't calculate or plan or consider consequences. The pole was already shifting in his grip—becoming that spear configuration, the weight perfect for throwing or striking. His legs carried him forward in a rush, bare foot pounding against earth, his entire body focused on one singular purpose.
Get that bird away from his fucking fish.
The eagle launched itself from the stones with a power that sent the remaining fillets scattering. Those massive wings beat twice—the span easily six feet, maybe more—catching air and lifting the body with impossible grace. But it didn't flee into the canopy like last time. Instead it angled toward the tree line, flying low, weaving between trunks with precision that suggested it knew exactly where it was going.
Ian's legs kept moving without consulting his brain. He crashed through the undergrowth after it, the spear gripped tight, his vision tunneling down to just that gray shape disappearing between trees. Branches whipped across his face. Roots tried to trip him. His bare foot found every sharp stone and stick in the forest.
He didn't care. The rage was a physical thing burning in his chest, driving him forward even when his lungs started screaming for air.
The eagle stayed barely ahead of him, its flight path deliberate rather than panicked. It would land on a branch, wait until he'd almost reached it, then launch again before he could get close enough to strike. Leading him deeper into the forest, away from the clearing, away from anything familiar.
Some distant part of Ian's mind recognized this was stupid. Chasing a massive bird of prey through unknown forest while exhausted and half-starved was the kind of decision that got people killed. But the rage had control now, burning through exhaustion and common sense with equal efficiency. His legs kept pumping, his grip stayed tight on the spear, his eyes tracked that gray shape flitting between trees ahead of him.
The eagle banked left, disappearing behind a dense cluster of pines. Ian followed without slowing, crashing through undergrowth that grabbed at his legs. He burst into a small clearing and—
The eagle was gone.
Ian stood there gasping, his chest heaving, sweat soaking through his ruined shirt despite the chill. The clearing was empty. Just trees and undergrowth and the sound of his own ragged breathing. No gray wings. No yellow eyes. Nothing but forest that looked exactly like every other patch of forest he'd seen.
His grip tightened on the spear until his knuckles went white. The rage was still there, simmering under his ribs, but reality was starting to creep back in around the edges. He was in the middle of the forest. No idea how far he'd run or which direction. The sun was descending toward the tree line but he couldn't tell which way was back to the cabin.
Well that's just great Ian thought as his breath came in ragged gasps. The rage was starting to cool, leaving behind the uncomfortable awareness that he'd just sprinted into unknown forest chasing a bird that had probably been laughing at him the entire time. What an idiot.
Thump-a-Thump.
Thump-a-Thump.
Thump-a-Thump .
Then he heard it. Something moving through the forest. Multiple somethings. The sound was rhythmic, heavy—not the chaotic crash of a panicked animal but deliberate movement. Hoofbeats. A lot of them.
His body reacted before his mind finished processing. The spear shifted back to its pole form as Ian dove behind a thick oak, pressing himself flat against the trunk. His heart hammered so hard he was sure whatever was coming would hear it. He forced his breathing to slow, to quiet, every muscle locked rigid as the sounds grew closer.
Novelty had lost its appeal. After a week of grueling sameness, Ian should have welcomed any change to his routine. But in this wilderness he wasn't trusting anything even if it was giftwrap.
The hoofbeats entered the clearing. Ian risked a glance around the trunk and his breath caught in his throat.
Horses. No—not horses. The lower bodies were equine, powerful and muscular, but where the neck should rise there was instead a human torso. Women. Five of them, maybe six, their human halves armored in what looked like leather and metal that caught the fading sunlight. Their horse bodies were various shades—bay, dappled gray, black—all of them moving with that same controlled precision that spoke of training and discipline.
Centaurs. The word surfaced from mythology he'd half-remembered from high school, but seeing them in reality made his brain stutter. They were real. Actually real. Not illustrations in a book or CGI in a movie but flesh and blood and muscle moving through the clearing with lethal grace.
OK, really now where the FUCK WAS HE! Centaurs he has delt with the madness from the pole because it help him but… No focuses don't get distracted.
Ian pressed harder against the oak, his fingers digging into bark. Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't let them see you.
The centaurs moved in formation, their eyes scanning the forest with the kind of attention that made his skin crawl. They were searching for something. The way their heads turned in coordinated sweeps, the way their hands rested on weapons at their sides—this wasn't a casual patrol.
Then the group parted slightly, and Ian saw her.
The center centaur was different from the others. Taller, maybe seven feet if you counted from hoof to crown, her equine lower half a pristine white that seemed to glow in the fading light. But it was her upper body that made Ian's mouth go dry.
She was built like some classical sculpture come to life—all curves and soft edges that shouldn't exist on something that powerful. Her breasts were full and heavy, barely contained by the soft white cloth that looked more decorative than functional, the pale flesh swelling above the material with each breath. The cloth left her midriff exposed, showing a taut stomach that led down to where human skin met white horse coat in a seamless transition that his brain couldn't quite process.
Her face was delicate in that way that suggested nobility or breeding or both—high cheekbones, full lips, features that would have been stunning on any woman but seemed almost obscene on something this large and dangerous. Silver-white hair cascaded down her back in waves, adorned with small flowers that looked like they'd been deliberately placed. And rising from her forehead, catching the light with an opalescent shimmer, was a horn. Spiraled, about eight inches long, looking sharp enough to gut him if she decided to lower her head and charge.
The centaur's breasts shifted with her movement as she turned, surveying the clearing with those unsettling eyes—too bright, too focused, scanning the tree line like she could see through the undergrowth.
The others orbited around her like she was the sun and they were planets locked in her gravity. Guards. They had to be guards. The way they positioned themselves, the way their attention split between scanning the forest and checking on her—this was protection detail.
"There's been no sign of the male, my lady." One of the guards spoke, her voice carrying easily across the clearing. "We've been searching for hours."
The white centaur—the one with the horn—turned her head slightly. Even from this distance, Ian could see the elegance in the movement, like every gesture was choreographed. When she spoke, her voice was... he didn't have words for it. Refined. Musical. The kind of voice that made you want to listen even if she was reading a grocery list.
"Patience." The word came out like a command wrapped in silk. "He could be anywhere. The forest is vast, and males are... unpredictable in their movements."
Males? Ian's brain snagged on the word, trying to parse what she meant. Male centaurs? Were they looking for their own kind? The guard had said "the male" like it was singular, specific. Not males plural. One male they were tracking through the forest.
The guard who'd spoken shifted her weight, her hooves churning up dirt. "My lady, we cannot linger. This could be a deception." Her hand moved to the weapon at her side—some kind of short spear strapped to her flank. "The information we purchased from the Ratatoskr could have been a false. "
"No." The white centaur's voice cut through the objection with absolute certainty. "No Ratatoskr, regardless of their desperation, would fabricate such a claim." She turned slightly, the movement making her breasts shift against the white cloth. "The consequences would be too severe. And it would be such a transparent falsehood—there are far too few unclaimed males on this side of the Skyreach Peaks for anyone to believe a random sighting."
The words tumbled through Ian's head without landing anywhere useful. Unclaimed males? What the hell did that mean? His fingers dug harder into the oak's bark, splinters pressing into his palms.
The guard's jaw tightened, her entire posture radiating tension. "Even so, we are dangerously close to the Ant Queen's territory. If her scouts catch wind of your presence here—"
"I am aware of the risks." The white centaur's tone had shifted, taking on an edge that made the guard immediately lower her gaze. "But the potential reward outweighs—" She stopped mid-sentence, her head tilting slightly. Those too-bright eyes swept across the tree line, moving slowly, methodically.
Scanning.
Ian's entire body locked up. His lungs refused to draw breath. The white centaur's gaze moved across the forest, passing over trees, undergrowth, shadows that could hide anything. Her expression was focused, intent, like she'd sensed something out of place.
The horn caught the fading sunlight, that opalescent shimmer making it look almost ethereal. But there was nothing soft about the way she held herself—every muscle tense, alert, predatory despite the refined features and flowing hair.
Her eyes moved closer to his position. Closer. The oak's trunk suddenly felt inadequate, too narrow, not enough coverage. Ian pressed himself flatter against the bark, his heart slamming against his ribs so hard it had to be audible. The spear was still in his hand but what good would that do against six of them? Seven feet tall, armored, moving with military precision—
The white centaur's gaze swept past his tree. Paused. Returned.
Ice flooded Ian's veins. She was looking directly at his hiding spot. Not quite at him, but close enough that the angle felt wrong. Her nostrils flared slightly, like she was testing the air. The other centaurs had gone still, following their leader's focus, hands moving to weapons.
Seconds stretched. Ian's lungs burned from holding his breath but releasing it might give him away. The white centaur stared at the oak, at the shadows around it, her expression unreadable. The horn tilted slightly as she shifted her head, trying to see from a different angle.
Just before he thought she was going to come over and discover him a loud CAWW split the air—sharp and piercing, cutting through the tension like a blade.
The white centaur's head snapped up, her gaze torn from Ian's hiding spot toward the sound. The massive bird was circling overhead, its gray wings catching the last rays of sunlight as it wheeled above the clearing. Another cry echoed through the trees, harsh and mocking.
"My lady?" One of the guards stepped closer, her hand tight on her spear. "What is it?"
The white centaur stared upward for a long moment, her expression shifting through something Ian couldn't read. Frustration? Confusion? Her jaw tightened slightly before she shook her head, the silver-white hair cascading across her shoulders with the movement.
"Nothing." The word came out clipped, less musical than before. "A shadow. The light playing tricks." She turned away from Ian's tree completely, her attention moving to the other guards. "We need to expand the search pattern. He could have moved deeper into the territory by now."
The guards shifted their positions, hooves churning the earth. One of them glanced toward where Ian hid, but her leader was already moving, and the formation adjusted to follow. The white centaur led them toward the far edge of the clearing, her powerful equine body moving with that same controlled grace.
"We'll circle back toward the river," she called out, her voice carrying easily. "If the Ratatoskr's information was accurate was was close to it."
The group began to move, their hoofbeats creating that rhythmic thunder that had announced their arrival. Ian pressed harder against the oak, not daring to breathe, not daring to move even as they started to leave. The eagle cried out again from somewhere above, and he caught a glimpse of gray wings disappearing into the canopy.
The hoofbeats faded gradually, the sound diminishing as the centaurs moved deeper into the forest. Ian stayed frozen against the tree, counting his heartbeats, forcing himself to wait long after the sounds had disappeared completely. His legs were cramping from the rigid position but he didn't care. Better cramped than whatever the hell those things would have done if they'd found him.
When the forest had been silent for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, Ian finally let himself breathe properly. His lungs pulled in air with a gasp that sounded too loud in the quiet. His entire body was shaking—adrenaline crash hitting now that the immediate danger had passed.
Ian's mind churned through what he'd just witnessed, the pieces refusing to fit together into anything coherent. Were they looking for him? The way that white centaur had talked about "the male" like it was some kind of prize, like finding him was worth risking territory disputes with something called an Ant Queen—his stomach twisted at the implications he didn't want to examine.
But who the hell had told them he was here? The guard had mentioned purchasing information. From a Ratatoskr. What the fuck was a Ratatoskr?
And centaurs. Actual fucking centaurs with weapons and military formations and that white one with the horn who'd looked at his hiding spot like she could smell him through the bark. His brain kept trying to reject the reality of what he'd seen, but the adrenaline still flooding his system insisted it had been real. Seven feet of muscle and curves and that voice that had made his skin crawl in ways he didn't want to analyze.
The panic started building in his chest, that tight pressure that made breathing difficult. He needed to get back to camp. Now. Before those things circled back, before whatever else was prowling this forest decided to investigate the clearing. His legs felt shaky as he pushed away from the oak, his grip white-knuckled on the pole.
Which direction? The clearing looked identical to a dozen others he'd passed through chasing that damned bird. The sun was descending rapidly toward the tree line, the light fading into that gray twilight that would make navigation impossible within minutes. His bare foot found the ground carefully, testing each step, his eyes scanning the undergrowth for any sign of the path he'd crashed through earlier.
There—broken ferns where he'd burst into the clearing. The stems were bent at wrong angles, showing the violence of his passage. Ian moved toward them, his body coiled tight, every sound making his head snap around.
His legs carried him forward through darkening forest, weaving between trees, his path more direct than the panicked chase that had brought him here.
The light was dying fast. That brief twilight before full darkness pressed in from all sides, turning the forest into a maze of shadows that could hide anything. Ian's pace increased despite his exhaustion, his bare foot finding purchase on ground he couldn't properly see. Branches whipped across his face. Roots tried to trip him.
The clearing materialized through the trees ahead—his cabin walls rising dark against the dimming sky, the fire pit a faint glow of coals. Relief flooded through him so intense his legs nearly buckled. He'd made it back. Actually made it back instead of dying lost in the forest because he'd been stupid enough to chase a bird.
Ian stumbled into the clearing and stopped, his chest heaving. The cabin stood exactly as he'd left it, the roof framework casting geometric shadows in the fading light. The hide still lay draped over the log. Everything untouched, undisturbed, like the last hour hadn't happened at all.
But it had happened. Those centaurs existed—flesh and blood and hooves—and they were hunting through these woods for someone. The white one's words echoed in his mind: "If the Ratatoskr's information was accurate..." They knew someone was near the river.
His hands were shaking. Ian forced them to still, forced his breathing to slow despite the panic still simmering under his ribs. He needed to eat. Needed to check if any of those fillets had survived the eagle's raid. Needed to do something normal and immediate instead of spiraling about threats he couldn't control.
The cooking stones sat scattered where the bird had sent them flying. Two fillets remained—the eagle had gotten the others. Ian's jaw clenched at the waste, at the calories he'd lost because that damned bird had decided his food was community property. But two fillets were better than nothing.
He rebuilt the fire mechanically, his hands moving through motions that had become automatic. The flames grew, the stones heated, the fish cooked. He ate standing up, barely tasting the meat, his eyes constantly scanning the tree line for movement that didn't belong.
The darkness was complete now. No moon, just stars overhead and the fire's glow pushing back the immediate shadows. Ian looked at the cabin walls, at the space inside that would be his shelter tonight. The lean-to was gone. Collapsed into mulch. The cabin was all he had.
He grabbed the hide and carried it inside, spreading the leather across the bare earth floor. Not much padding, but better than sleeping directly on cold ground. His body settled onto it with a groan of relief, his back finally able to stretch out instead of curling against tree bark.
The pole lay across his chest, solid and reassuring. The roof framework loomed overhead, those geometric patterns barely visible in the darkness. Four walls around him. Actual enclosure. It should have felt safer than the lean-to, but his mind kept replaying those centaurs moving through the clearing with lethal grace.
A sound cut through the night—rustling in the trees beyond the cabin walls. Ian's entire body went rigid, his fingers tightening on the pole. The metal warmed instantly, it was ready and just waiting on him.
The rustling came again—leaves shifting, a branch creaking under weight. Ian's jaw clenched as he stared up at the dark roof framework, his exhausted brain trying to parse whether the sound was real or just his paranoia manufacturing threats.
Another animal. Had to be. The forest was full of them—deer, raccoons, whatever other creatures prowled the darkness. His mind was playing tricks, turning normal night sounds into centaurs circling back or that damned eagle returning for another raid. He'd already lost enough sleep this week. He wasn't going to waste what little rest he could get jumping at shadows.
The pole's warmth faded as his grip loosened. His body sank deeper into the leather hide beneath him, muscles unwinding despite the tension still coiled in his chest. The exhaustion was winning—that bone-deep fatigue that made keeping his eyes open feel like lifting weights.
Sleep pulled at him with insistent hands. His thoughts started fragmenting, skipping between the centaurs and the eagle and tomorrow's impossible task list and the hide pressed against his back and the fear of knowing that their were other things in this forest more fantastic than he could have ever dreamed…
Dream… That sounds like a good idea…
He was out before he could finish the thought.