1
TRISTAN
Snow came down sideways, fine and sharp as sand, blurring Hollow Oak into white and shadow. Tristan Ash moved through it with the steady, deliberate gait of someone who’d walked through worse in a dozen countries. His boots broke clean prints into the accumulation, the only sound aside from wind cutting between the pines. The first true whiteout of the season always changed the town’s rhythm, yet tonight the forest felt off-beat.
He paused at the treeline overlooking Moonmirror Lake. The lake was normally a glassy black sheet this time of year; now it was buried under ice that shivered beneath the storm. The hairs on his arms rose anyway.
His tiger stirred.
“Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “I feel it too.”
A gust swept snow against his coat. The cold didn’t bother him with his military conditioning and shifter metabolism, but something else pushed heat under his skin: the abrupt shift in the air, metallic and wrong, like scorched iron just after a bullet fired.
He scanned the shoreline. Blue eyes adjusted fast in low light. Quick, thin movement flickered in the whiteout, disappearing between trees.
Tristan followed.
His stride cut straight toward the lake’s northern bank, where the woods thickened. The wind pressed hard enough to sting his face, but he didn’t slow. Snow dampened sound, but the forest wasn’t silent; occasional cracks echoed from the frozen lake, long and hollow like distant thunder.
A set of light, almost delicate impressions emerged ahead. Not shifter. Not human in standard winter boots. Barefoot? No. Too shallow. Too precise.
Tristan crouched, gloved fingers brushing the edges. The tracks faded strangely, as though heat had touched the snow.
“What the hell?”
He rose and scanned the area again.
A ribbon of burnt snow stretched ten feet from the treeline to a jut of ice. The scorch mark steamed faintly, the scent acrid and out of place in winter.
That did it. His tiger pushed hard against his skin, teeth bared.
“Not yet,” he whispered.
A crunch of footsteps approached from behind. Careful, hesitant, familiar. Tristan didn’t turn until the voice came.
“Officer Ash? You out here working or trying to freeze yourself stupid?”
He glanced back. Silas Wren emerged with a lantern held high, his broad shoulders outlined against the storm. The bear shifter’s breath fogged strong and steady.
“Patrol,” Tristan answered. “Shouldn’t be more than one of us out in this weather.”
Silas snorted. “Tell Emmett that. Said he felt something weird on the air. Figured you’d be sniffing around out here.”
Tristan stepped aside and pointed toward the scorch line. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Silas lifted the lantern. The flame flickered violently.
“Shadow scorch?” Silas asked.
“Too clean for a shadow spell. Too hot.” Tristan scanned the treeline again. “Tracks over there. Light ones.”
Silas crouched. “Barely pressed. Like something skimming, not stepping.” He straightened up. “You think it’s a person?”
“No idea yet.”
Silas rubbed a hand across his jaw. “Moira said the wards have been humming like a cracked tuning fork. Not good timing. Half the town’s already nervous. First big storm… you know how they get.”
“I know.” Tristan stepped closer to the scorch. His breath fogged as he spoke. “You seen anything like this since you moved back?”
