"Stay back from the water while I break through," I instruct, drawing my knife to chip away at the frozen surface near the bank.
Eira obeys immediately, but her attention fixes on something else entirely. She tilts her head with the expression I've learned means she's using her unusual gifts, listening to things the rest of us cannot perceive.
"There are more berries upstream," she announces with absolute certainty. "Red ones. Sweet ones."
Mara and I exchange a look. The child's instincts have proven remarkably accurate, her strange magic manifesting inways that defy easy explanation but consistently provide useful information.
"How far upstream?" Mara asks.
Eira closes her eyes, her small face scrunched with concentration. "Not far. Past the big rock that looks like a sleeping bear."
I follow her gaze and spot the formation she means—a boulder arrangement that does indeed resemble a hibernating animal. Perhaps two hundred yards upstream, close enough for a quick gathering expedition.
"I'll break the ice here first," I decide, returning to my work. "Then we can follow the stream to these berries."
The ice yields to patient chipping, revealing clear water beneath that runs clean and cold. I fill the first water skin, testing the taste before filling the others. Good water, free of the metallic tang that sometimes indicates upstream contamination.
Eira grows restless waiting for me to finish, dancing from foot to foot with barely contained energy. "Can I skip rocks? Mama taught me but I'm not very good at it yet."
"The water's too fast for skipping here," I tell her, securing the filled water skins. "But I can show you proper technique when we find calmer water."
Her face lights up as though I've promised her the greatest treasure imaginable. Such simple pleasures, such easy joy—things I'd forgotten existed outside of childhood memories.
We follow the stream's meandering path upstream, Eira leading the way with the confidence of a skilled tracker despite her small size. The berry bushes she mentioned come into view exactly where she predicted, heavy with fruit that survived the early snow.
"There!" She points triumphantly. "I told you!"
"So you did." I examine the berries, recognizing them as winter-hardy cloudberries—tart but nutritious, and they'll keep well if we can gather enough. "Well spotted."
Mara moves to join the harvesting, but her attention keeps drifting to the surrounding forest. Always alert, always watching for threats. The habit of someone who's learned that safety is temporary, that danger can emerge without warning.
"These are good," she says, sampling one of the berries. "Sweet enough to make the sourness pleasant."
Eira chatters while we pick, sharing elaborate stories about berry fairies and winter spirits that would make our shamans proud. Her imagination runs as wild as her magical gifts, creating entire mythologies to explain the world around her.
I find myself relaxing despite the nagging urgency that reminds me of clan duties left unattended. This moment—gathering food with capable hands, listening to a child's laughter echo off the water, feeling useful rather than burdensome—carries a peace I hadn't realized I was craving.
Then I hear it.
A whistle, low and modulated, carrying across the winter air with deliberate intent. Scout signal. But not one I recognize from Wintermaw's traditional calls.
My blood turns to ice water.
Redmoon.
Every muscle in my body tenses as I scan the treeline, searching for movement among the shadows. The whistle came from downstream, perhaps three hundred yards away, but sound carries strangely in winter air. They could be closer. They could be farther. I have no way to know without exposing ourselves to reconnaissance.
Eira's chatter stops abruptly. She stands frozen beside the berry bush, her gold-tinged eyes wide with an expression I've never seen on her young face—pure, instinctive terror.
"Mama," she whispers, voice barely audible over the stream's murmur. "There are bad people coming. Angry people. They smell like smoke and metal and... and blood."
Mara's face drains of color, but her movements remain controlled as she drops into a crouch beside her daughter. "How many? How far?"
"Three," Eira says with the certainty her magic grants her. "Maybe four. They're looking for something. Looking for..." Her eyes find mine, wide with understanding that no five-year-old should possess. "Looking for him."
The world crystallizes into sharp focus. Redmoon scouts, tracking me through territory I thought secure. How long have they been following? How did they find my trail? The questions race through my mind even as my body moves on pure instinct.
I drop to my knees and gather both females against me, one arm around each, pulling them tight against my chest as I scan for immediate cover. A fallen log, ten feet away, provides the best concealment available. Not perfect, but better than standing exposed beside the stream.
