I unshoulder my pack and pull out my recurved bow, checking the string tension with practiced movements. "Your first lesson: reading the land."
Cyra moves closer, attention shifting from aesthetic appreciation to focused learning. "Reading how?"
"Everything tells a story if you know the language." I point to a depression in the icy snow near a cluster of winter-bare bushes. "What do you see?"
She studies the area carefully, brow furrowed in concentration. "Disturbed snow? Something was there recently."
"Good. What something?"
She kneels beside the mark, examining it more closely. "The shape is oval? About the size of my hand. And there are smaller marks nearby."
"Snowshoe hare. The large prints are hind feet, smaller ones are front. See how they're arranged?"
I crouch beside her, pointing out the details. "Hares move in a distinctive pattern, back feet land ahead of front feet with each hop. These tracks are fresh, maybe an hour old. The edges are still sharp, haven't been softened by wind or warming."
She smells like winter roses somehow, even after days in the wilderness.
The thought intrudes unbidden, and I force my attention back to the lesson.
"Now look at the direction of travel." I indicate the progression of prints leading toward a thicket of brambles. "Hares create runways—established paths they use repeatedly.If we follow this trail, we'll likely find where it joins a main thoroughfare."
Cyra nods eagerly, absorbing the information with surprising intensity. "So it's like reading a book, but instead of words..."
"Prints, scat, disturbed vegetation, scent markers. Every creature leaves traces of their passage."
I stand and begin moving slowly along the hare's trail, gesturing for her to follow. "Now comes the harder part, moving without adding your own story to the landscape."
This is where nobles usually fail.
I demonstrate proper foot placement, rolling from heel to toe to minimize snow compression, choosing paths that utilize existing disturbances when possible. My movements are deliberate, controlled, each step calculated to leave minimal evidence of passage.
"Your turn."
Cyra takes a tentative step, trying to mirror my technique. Her foot immediately punches through the snow crust with a sharp crack that echoes off the ice walls.
"Too much weight on the heel," I observe. "And you're overthinking the movement. Trust your body's natural balance."
She tries again with better results, then again, gradually finding a rhythm that doesn't sound like a cavalry charge. I watch her progress with something approaching approval. She lacks natural talent but compensates with determination and intelligence.
The hare trail leads us to the amphitheater, winding between ice formations and clusters of hardy vegetation. I signal for absolute silence as we approach what appears to be a convergence point where multiple paths intersect.
Perfect ambush location.
I nock an arrow and settle into position behind a screen of ice-glazed branches, motioning for Cyra to do the same. Shemoves with exaggerated care, clearly concentrating on every placement of hand and foot.
Then her boot hits a concealed patch of ice.
Time slows as her balance fails, arms windmilling frantically as gravity claims her. Without thinking, I drop my bow and lunge forward, catching her around the waist just as she begins her backward tumble toward the rocky ground.
The momentum carries us both forward, and suddenly she's pressed against my chest, my arm around her waist, her hands braced against my shoulders. Her face is tilted up toward mine, eyes wide with surprise, and I'm close enough to count the individual snowflakes caught in her dark lashes.
Too close.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Her breath mingles with mine in the cold air, creating small clouds that dissipate around us like morning mist. I'm acutely aware of her warmth through the layers of fur, the rapid flutter of her pulse where my forearm rests against her side, the way her lips part slightly as she stares up at me.
Some instinct I don't recognize, something deeper than clan law or hunting protocol, makes me lean down those final inches until my lips brush against her hairline. The touch is feather-light, barely contact at all, but it sends something electric racing through my entire system.
What am I doing?
