The wind bit at Torryk like a wild animal. His cheeks stung from its hungry teeth, a relentless gnawing that drove men mad. Jagged peaks jutted into the clouds, their slopes swooping down into a wide valley prickling with snow-covered trees. Narrow paths twisted through snow, his own footprints from an earlier hunt now dusted over with fresh powder.

Today, the Goddess had left him empty-handed. He tracked the river southwards, ice shards bobbing in its swift current, his sharp eyes scanning for a patch of brown fur, animal tracks, scratches on bark, any sign of life that would lead him to his prey.

The meager daylight was fading fast. He’d have to return with nothing and pray his stores lasted. Years of intuition told Torryk this would be an uncaring winter, not an unkind one, but brutal in its apathy. He would need to hunt more. Prepare, as he’d once prepared an entire clan for famine.

Moratha, give me one sign of life. His fist clenched around the bow’s grip. Something that would sustain him until the spring’s mercy.

Torryk’s gaze trailed along the river, footsteps hushed save for the soft crunch on snow. He’d almost missed it, too focused on the shores to look within the inky, rushing water. A drowned animal? No, a person, face-down and lodged on a rock, unmoving.

The breath left his lungs in a long exhale. It hadn’t been his first time finding a body, poor souls wandered up here with astonishing regularity, and he’d buried each one beneath a rock cairn. It was something to keep him human in a land dominated by wild beasts.

Before he could convince himself otherwise, Torryk stepped into the rapids.

“You foolish little thing,” he muttered, dragging them by their collar. All dead weight, but not yet bloated. Nature had taken another life. “You should have known better. This land is no place for you.”

He tossed them on the riverbank with a soft thud. Their pallid face sat frozen, mouth agape in what might have been a final gasp. But something in their complexion—or something in Torryk’s instincts—made him remove his glove and press a massive hand to their throat, two fingers searching for a flutter of life.

There. He found it, a weak pulse at the jugular that complicated everything.

It’d be foolish to take them with him, but it was his first thought, a persistent remnant of his life as a clan leader. Leave them. They’re asleep, they’ll never know you were here. They’d only know the icy water’s grip, the euphoric whisper of death, then silence.

He knelt beside them, then brushed a strand of wet hair from their face. It seemed kinder this way. With his decision made, he stood, ignoring the guilt twisting in his gut.

It tore at him sharper than any hunger or fear or discomfort, digging deep into the conscience he’d unfortunately neglected to abandon.

“Fuck…” Torryk hissed through clenched teeth.

With one swift movement, he threw them over one shoulder, blocking out the barrage of thoughts pounding like a heartbeat. The Goddess answered prayers in mysterious ways. He’d wanted a meal, instead, he’d taken on an extra mouth to feed.

For no more than a week, he swore to himself, stepping softly as to not jostle their weakened body. No more.

He felt them stir beside him.

Wind howled through the cave’s mouth, but the crackling fire warded off the chill. Their chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, body trembling beneath layers of fur, their skin still icy to the touch.

Too pale. Too cold. Stronger men had died to this.

“Hush, little wolf. You’re safe here.” Torryk tucked the furs around their naked body, then pressed his massive form against their back. His arm pulled them closer, anchoring them against him. He had stripped as well. It was more efficient, offering the heat his body hoarded.

“Fuck, will you stop squirming?” Oh. He should have warned them. To him, nakedness was as natural as breathing. “I’m not an animal. I swear by the goddess, I’ve done nothing to you. Except drag your sorry ass out of a river against my better judgment.”

I hope to Moratha you have a light appetite, Torryk thought as he tucked their head under his chin, beard scratching their scalp. He’d forgotten how to ration for more than one.

“Keeping you in those wet clothes would have been a death sentence. You’ll get them back when they’re dry.” He’d laid them by the fire in neat rows beside his boots. Despite the late hour, Torryk remained awake, his mind locked in a battle with itself.

There was a reason he avoided people. They tended to talk, tended to heed the whispers of liars, and tended to send men after him. As many times as he’d tried to cast off the past, it returned with sharper teeth. And so he hadn’t slept. Just held this liability in his arms and ignored the blooming warmth in his chest. Ignored how he could stay here all night. It had been a long and lonely seven years in solitude.

He swore he wouldn't get attached. But what did oaths mean in this lawless land?

“Foolish,” he whispered into their damp hair. “Both of us.”

The wind bit at Torryk like a wild animal. His cheeks stung from its hungry teeth, a relentless gnawing that drove men mad. Jagged peaks jutted into the clouds, their slopes swooping down into a wide valley prickling with snow-covered trees. Narrow paths twisted through snow, his own footprints from an earlier hunt now dusted over with fresh powder.

Today, the Goddess had left him empty-handed. He tracked the river southwards, ice shards bobbing in its swift current, his sharp eyes scanning for a patch of brown fur, animal tracks, scratches on bark, any sign of life that would lead him to his prey.

The meager daylight was fading fast. He’d have to return with nothing and pray his stores lasted. Years of intuition told Torryk this would be an uncaring winter, not an unkind one, but brutal in its apathy. He would need to hunt more. Prepare, as he’d once prepared an entire clan for famine.

Moratha, give me one sign of life. His fist clenched around the bow’s grip. Something that would sustain him until the spring’s mercy.

Torryk’s gaze trailed along the river, footsteps hushed save for the soft crunch on snow. He’d almost missed it, too focused on the shores to look within the inky, rushing water. A drowned animal? No, a person, face-down and lodged on a rock, unmoving.

The breath left his lungs in a long exhale. It hadn’t been his first time finding a body, poor souls wandered up here with astonishing regularity, and he’d buried each one beneath a rock cairn. It was something to keep him human in a land dominated by wild beasts.

Before he could convince himself otherwise, Torryk stepped into the rapids.

“You foolish little thing,” he muttered, dragging her by her collar. All dead weight, but not yet bloated. Nature had taken another life. “You should have known better. This land is no place for you.”

He tossed her on the riverbank with a soft thud. Her pallid face sat frozen, mouth agape in what might have been a final gasp. But something in her complexion—or something in Torryk’s instincts—made him remove his glove and press a massive hand to her throat, two fingers searching for a flutter of life.

There. He found it, a weak pulse at the jugular that complicated everything.

It’d be foolish to take her with him, but it was his first thought, a persistent remnant of his life as a clan leader. Leave her. She's asleep, she’ll never know you were here. She’d only know the icy water’s grip, the euphoric whisper of death, then silence.

He knelt beside her, then brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. It seemed kinder this way. With his decision made, he stood, ignoring the guilt twisting in his gut.

It tore at him sharper than any hunger or fear or discomfort, digging deep into the conscience he’d unfortunately neglected to abandon.

“Fuck…” Torryk hissed through clenched teeth.

With one swift movement, he threw her over one shoulder, blocking out the barrage of thoughts pounding like a heartbeat. The Goddess answered prayers in mysterious ways. He’d wanted a meal, instead, he’d taken on an extra mouth to feed.

For no more than a week, he swore to himself, stepping softly as to not jostle her weakened body. No more.

He felt her stir beside him.

Wind howled through the cave’s mouth, but the crackling fire warded off the chill. Her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, body trembling beneath layers of fur, her skin still icy to the touch.

Too pale. Too cold. Stronger men had died to this.

“Hush, little wolf. You’re safe here.” Torryk tucked the furs around her naked body, then pressed his massive form against her back. His arm pulled her closer, anchoring her against him. He had stripped as well. It was more efficient, offering the heat his body hoarded.

“Fuck, will you stop squirming?” Oh. He should have warned her. To him, nakedness was as natural as breathing. “I’m not an animal. I swear by the goddess, I’ve done nothing to you. Except drag your sorry ass out of a river against my better judgment.”

I hope to Moratha you have a light appetite, Torryk thought as he tucked her head under his chin, beard scratching her scalp. He’d forgotten how to ration for more than one.

“Keeping you in those wet clothes would have been a death sentence. You’ll get them back when they’re dry.” He’d laid them by the fire in neat rows beside his boots. Despite the late hour, Torryk remained awake, his mind locked in a battle with itself.

There was a reason he avoided people. They tended to talk, tended to heed the whispers of liars, and tended to send men after him. As many times as he’d tried to cast off the past, it returned with sharper teeth. And so he hadn’t slept. Just held this liability in his arms and ignored the blooming warmth in his chest. Ignored how he could stay here all night. It had been a long and lonely seven years in solitude.

He swore he wouldn't get attached. But what did oaths mean in this lawless land?

“Foolish,” he whispered into her damp hair. “Both of us.”

The wind bit at Torryk like a wild animal. His cheeks stung from its hungry teeth, a relentless gnawing that drove men mad. Jagged peaks jutted into the clouds, their slopes swooping down into a wide valley prickling with snow-covered trees. Narrow paths twisted through snow, his own footprints from an earlier hunt now dusted over with fresh powder.

Today, the Goddess had left him empty-handed. He tracked the river southwards, ice shards bobbing in its swift current, his sharp eyes scanning for a patch of brown fur, animal tracks, scratches on bark, any sign of life that would lead him to his prey.

The meager daylight was fading fast. He’d have to return with nothing and pray his stores lasted. Years of intuition told Torryk this would be an uncaring winter, not an unkind one, but brutal in its apathy. He would need to hunt more. Prepare, as he’d once prepared an entire clan for famine.

Moratha, give me one sign of life. His fist clenched around the bow’s grip. Something that would sustain him until the spring’s mercy.

Torryk’s gaze trailed along the river, footsteps hushed save for the soft crunch on snow. He’d almost missed it, too focused on the shores to look within the inky, rushing water. A drowned animal? No, a person, face-down and lodged on a rock, unmoving.

The breath left his lungs in a long exhale. It hadn’t been his first time finding a body, poor souls wandered up here with astonishing regularity, and he’d buried each one beneath a rock cairn. It was something to keep him human in a land dominated by wild beasts.

Before he could convince himself otherwise, Torryk stepped into the rapids.

“You foolish little thing,” he muttered, dragging the lost soul by his collar. All dead weight, but not yet bloated. Nature had taken another life. “You should have known better. This land is no place for you.”

He tossed him on the riverbank with a soft thud. His pallid face sat frozen, mouth agape in what might have been a final gasp. But something in his complexion—or something in Torryk’s instincts—made him remove his glove and press a massive hand to his throat, two fingers searching for a flutter of life.

There. He found it, a weak pulse at the jugular that complicated everything.

It’d be foolish to take him back to his cave, but it was his first thought, a persistent remnant of his life as a clan leader. Leave him. He's asleep, he’ll never know you were here. He’d only know the icy water’s grip, the euphoric whisper of death, then silence.

He knelt beside him, then brushed a strand of wet hair from his face. It seemed kinder this way. With his decision made, he stood, ignoring the guilt twisting in his gut.

It tore at him sharper than any hunger or fear or discomfort, digging deep into the conscience he’d unfortunately neglected to abandon.

“Fuck…” Torryk hissed through clenched teeth.

With one swift movement, he threw him over one shoulder, blocking out the barrage of thoughts pounding like a heartbeat. The Goddess answered prayers in mysterious ways. He’d wanted a meal, instead, he’d taken on an extra mouth to feed.

For no more than a week, he swore to himself, stepping softly as to not jostle the wanderer's weakened body. No more.

Torryk felt him stir beside him.

Wind howled through the cave’s mouth, but the crackling fire warded off the chill. Beside Torryk, the wanderer's chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, body trembling beneath layers of fur, his skin still icy to the touch.

Too pale. Too cold. Stronger men had died to this.

“Hush, little wolf. You’re safe here.” Torryk tucked the furs around his naked body, then pressed his massive form against his back. His arm pulled him closer, anchoring him against him. He had stripped as well. It was more efficient, offering the heat his body hoarded.

“Fuck, will you stop squirming?” Oh. He should have warned him. To Torryk, nakedness was as natural as breathing. “I’m not an animal. I swear by the goddess, I’ve done nothing to you. Except drag your sorry ass out of a river against my better judgment.”

I hope to Moratha you have a light appetite, Torryk thought as he tucked his head under his chin, beard scratching his scalp. He’d forgotten how to ration for more than one.

“Keeping you in those wet clothes would have been a death sentence. You’ll get them back when they’re dry.” He’d laid them by the fire in neat rows beside his boots. Despite the late hour, Torryk remained awake, his mind locked in a battle with itself.

There was a reason he avoided people. They tended to talk, tended to heed the whispers of liars, and tended to send men after him. As many times as he’d tried to cast off the past, it returned with sharper teeth. And so he hadn’t slept. Just held this liability in his arms and ignored the blooming warmth in his chest. Ignored how he could stay here all night. It had been a long and lonely seven years in solitude.

He swore he wouldn't get attached. But what did oaths mean in this lawless land?

“Foolish,” he whispered into his damp hair. “Both of us.”