The huntsman's boots crunched softly along the frosted forest path, each step carrying him further from the rotting city and closer to the warmth that anchored his spirit. Above him, dawn crept through pine boughs in thin gold lines, illuminating drifting motes of frost like falling stars.
His breath plumed in the frigid air. The long night's work weighed upon his shoulders, not in guilt, but in the quiet exhaustion of duty fulfilled. His kills never haunted him; only the thought of leaving his family unprotected could pierce the iron walls around his heart.
The forest opened into a small clearing where his cabin sat nestled among frost-hardened brambles. Thin curls of smoke rose from the chimney, mingling with pale morning mist. A single lantern glowed in the window, casting golden light across the snowy ground.
As he approached, he heard laughter from within – soft and bright like ringing chimes. For a moment, he paused beside an ancient oak, resting his hand against its cold, gnarled bark. His grey eyes closed. He let the voices wash over him, cleansing away the scent of blood still clinging to his cloak.
He stepped onto the porch, and before his knuckles rapped against the wood, the door swung open.
Aryn stood there, bundled in a thick fur-lined tunic. His pale brown hair curled around his ears, and his cheeks were flushed from tending the morning fire. He held a small wooden practice sword in his hands, gripping it with determined intensity.
"Papa," he said, trying to sound strong despite the tremble in his voice. "If you were an intruder, I'd have struck first."
The huntsman smiled behind his cloth mask, his eyes softening. He ruffled his son's hair, feeling the warmth of the boy's scalp beneath his leather glove. "And you would've bought your mother and sister enough time to escape," he replied quietly.
Aryn's chest puffed out with pride. He stepped aside, allowing his father to enter.
Inside, the cabin was alive with warmth and light. A small iron stove burned in the corner, filling the room with the scents of simmering broth and fresh pine resin. Overhead, bundles of drying herbs hung from dark wooden beams, swaying gently in the rising heat.
Sila sat on a fur rug before the hearth, humming softly to herself as she arranged carved wooden animals in a circle. Her hair was tied back in two braids, but stray strands curled free to frame her cherubic face. When she saw him, her blue eyes widened with joy.
"Papa!" she squealed, abandoning her game and running across the room. She flung her arms around his leg, hugging him tightly. "Did you bring me a story today?"
He lifted her easily into his arms, pressing his masked face against her forehead. "I always bring you stories, little moon," he whispered.
She giggled, wriggling in his grip until he set her down again.
At the stove, Lira stirred a bubbling pot of venison stew. Her long chestnut hair was tied back in a loose knot, a few damp strands curling around her flushed neck. When she turned to greet him, her eyes – a deep forest green – held a softness that made the chill of the outside world fade from his bones.
"You're home earlier than usual," she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
He nodded, unwinding his cloak and hanging it on a wooden peg by the door. The black cloth mask slipped from his face, revealing high cheekbones dusted with frost, a strong jaw lined with dark stubble, and eyes weary but alive.
Lira stepped forward and cupped his cheek in her warm palm. "Was it a hard night?" she asked softly.
"No harder than most," he murmured, leaning into her touch. For a moment, the silence between them pulsed with unspoken truths. She did not ask whom he had killed. He never told her. It was the one darkness they allowed to remain unlit between them.
Sila tugged on his tunic. "Papa, come sit! Mama made honey bread for breakfast!"
He smiled faintly, letting Lira's hand fall as he moved to the rough-hewn table. Aryn followed, placing his practice sword carefully beside the doorway before sitting opposite his father.
Lira ladled steaming stew into wooden bowls, her movements swift and graceful from years of tending hearth and child alone during his long absences. She set a thick slab of golden honey bread beside his bowl, its crust still glistening with warm butter.
He bowed his head, folding his calloused hands together.
"Moon above," he whispered, "thank you for returning me to these walls. May my hands remain strong enough to guard them until your silver light calls me home."
Aryn bowed his head as well, repeating the final words softly under his breath. Across the table, Sila stuffed a piece of honey bread into her mouth before clasping her hands belatedly, her cheeks bulging like a squirrel's.
Lira laughed quietly, reaching over to wipe crumbs from their daughter's lips. "Slow down, little hare," she chided gently.
They ate in warm silence for a while. Aryn spoke of trapping lessons Elder Orun had given him the previous day. Sila babbled about dreams of moon spirits who danced among tree branches, leaving silver flowers that melted at dawn. Lira listened, her eyes flicking to her husband's face between each story, studying the lines that deepened each passing winter.
After breakfast, the huntsman carried his gear to the corner by the door. He began wiping down his blades, laying each one carefully on a folded cloth. Aryn watched with rapt attention, mimicking his father's slow, deliberate movements with his wooden practice sword.
Lira set about cleaning the bowls, humming softly under her breath. Outside, the rising sun lit the snow-draped pines in brilliant silver and gold. Frostshade Forest looked peaceful from their small window – an untouched world, unaware of the rot festering in the kingdom's heart.
When the last blade was cleaned and sheathed, the huntsman rose and stretched. His joints popped softly, reminders of old wounds that never fully healed.
He looked down to see Sila curled on the bearskin rug, her stuffed hare clutched to her chest, eyes drooping with sleep. He knelt beside her, brushing wisps of hair from her forehead.
"Come, little moon," he whispered, gathering her gently in his arms. "Time to rest."
She stirred, mumbling softly, "Tell me a story, Papa…"
He carried her to the small sleeping alcove separated by a heavy wool curtain. Laying her upon the straw mattress, he tucked a thick fur blanket around her small form. She blinked up at him, lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.
"Tell me the story of the wolf and the hunter," she murmured.
His chest tightened. It was always this story she asked for when sleep lingered far from her dreams.
"Once," he began softly, his deep voice rumbling in the dim alcove, "there was a great hunter who chased a silver wolf across the endless snows. For days he tracked her, through storms and darkness, never giving up. But when he finally caught her, she turned to him with eyes full of sorrow. 'Why do you hunt me?' she asked. 'To feed my children,' he answered. The wolf bowed her head and said, 'Then take me, for your little ones should never go hungry.'"
Sila's breathing slowed, her small lips parting in sleep. The huntsman fell silent, brushing a final kiss to her forehead.
He stood slowly, letting the curtain fall shut behind him. In the main room, Lira had finished her chores and was tending to a pot of dried herbs above the stove. She turned as he emerged, studying his face.
"Are you leaving again today?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated, then shook his head. "Not today."
She smiled, relief softening the tension in her shoulders. "Then rest, my love. You've earned it."
He moved to her, wrapping his arms around her slender waist from behind. She leaned into him, her warmth seeping into the cold that never fully left his bones.
Outside, a breeze rattled frost-coated branches against the window pane. High above, three black crows circled the clearing, their caws echoing through the forest like a warning. The huntsman's eyes narrowed as he watched them through the window.
Somewhere beyond those trees, a darkness stirred. A darkness that even his blades could not silence.
But for now, within these walls, there was only warmth, quiet laughter, and the soft breathing of those he loved beyond life itself.