Winter had settled in fully by then.
Snow lay thin and hard, crusted where it had been walked on, unbroken where it hadn't. Nothing softened anymore. What froze stayed frozen.
He stopped when the air ahead changed.
Sound carried wrong—too far, then not at all. His breath fogged and lingered where it should have drifted away.
The snow there was undisturbed.
Not wind-smoothed. Not new. Just untouched, set apart from the scuffed ground around it. A shallow dip marked the place.
Too smooth.
He moved closer.
Something drew itself out of the air.
It formed unevenly, snapping into a rough human shape, limbs stretched too long, joints bending wrong before settling again. What might once have been clothing hung from it in stiff, frozen tatters. Hair lifted and streamed as though it were underwater.
Its face held.
Eyes, mouth, the slope of a nose—present, but pulled long and hollowed, skin grey and tight like frostbitten flesh. The mouth opened without sound.
It lurched toward him in a sudden blur.
He rolled to the side, boots scraping over hard snow, coming up low with the breath knocked from him.
The freezing still caught him, cutting through movement and leather alike, numbing his fingers as he rose.
He drew the silver sword.
A wraith.
—
The village had been little more than a handful of roofs and smoke when he passed through.
He hadn't planned to stop.
A voice had carried after him from the road.
"Master witcher!"
Boots slipping on frost. A man running, breath ragged, coat half-fastened.
"There's— there's something," he said. "I-in the woods. A ghost. Or a spectre. I don't know."
No answer.
"It shows up in winter. Not every night. Just sometimes. People have seen it near the old path. Won't come close after that. Animals either."
A glance back toward the trees.
"No one uses that path anymore."
He had named a price.
The man had hesitated, then nodded. "I'll speak to the others."
That had been enough.
—
The wraith surged again, snapping him back into the present.
He drove the Sign into the snow.
Yrden.
The glyph burned thin and uneven, its lines already fraying at the edges. The air inside it tightened, resisting the wraith just enough to tear its outline sharp.
That was all it gave.
He stepped in and struck.
Silver passed through with resistance that wasn't flesh, the impact jolting his arm. The blade tore through it, and for a moment the shape buckled.
Then it came back at him harder.
The air tightened until his breath burned in his chest. His arms felt heavy, response lagging just enough to matter. The ground slid under his boots as if the snow had turned slick beneath him.
He backed away, teeth clenched, keeping the blade moving, breaking its shape whenever it came too close. Each strike cost more than the last.
The freezing deepened, dragging at his limbs, stealing strength without pain. He forced himself forward anyway and struck again, silver disrupting what little cohesion it managed to pull back together.
The wraith slowed.
Not bound. Not trapped.
Failing.
Its shape thinned, edges breaking apart faster than they could reform. One last lunge carried it past him, then it came apart entirely, unraveling into nothing the air could hold.
Silence followed.
He did not leave right away.
Winter kept things too well.
He searched the hollow, brushing stiff snow aside with his boot. It broke away in sheets, revealing darker ground beneath. Something pale showed through.
Bones.
Not many. Left where they had fallen. Cloth frozen into the earth, edges grey and stiff with age. No marker. No sign anyone had returned once the ground hardened.
He worked without ceremony. Fire first—small, controlled—enough to finish what winter had preserved too long. When it was done, he buried what remained as deep as the ground would allow.
Snow filled the hollow again.
He wiped frost and residue from the blade, sheathed it, and turned back toward the road.
—
He reached the village before dusk.
Smoke lifted from the roofs, thin and straight in the still air. Someone was splitting wood near the road and stopped when he saw him. Another turned away and went inside without comment.
The man from before found him near the well.
He looked tired. Not frightened now. Just worn.
"It's done," the witcher said.
The man searched his face, then the trees beyond the roofs, as if expecting something to follow.
"You're sure?"
The witcher nodded.
The man let out a breath he hadn't meant to hold and reached into his coat. The coin changed hands without ceremony.
Only then did he speak again.
"That's it, then?"
The witcher gave a second, smaller nod and turned away.
No one clapped. No one thanked him. A woman drew a child back from the road and closed a door. Another man started toward the trees, then stopped and turned back.
The path would be used again. Not tonight. Soon.
He didn't stay.