He clicked the radio off. Another gust pushed against him, carrying a faint whisper. Not sound, not wind, something between.
He froze.
Snow swirled along the lake in a slow spiral as though something unseen walked through it. Cold threaded the back of his neck. His hand went instinctively to the knife at his belt.
The spiral broke apart.
Tristan exhaled once and steadied himself. He stepped away from the lake and headed toward town. No sprint, no panic. Just steady, tactical retreat. Enough distance to assess. Enough calm to keep the tiger contained.
Tristan moved along the shoreline, following the tree line with his gaze locked on the shadows between bare branches. The snow swallowed sound, turned the world into a suffocating blanket of white that could hide a dozen threats or nothing at all.
He circled wide, cutting back toward town through the woods on the lake's western edge. His boots found purchase on frozen ground, each step measured and deliberate. The kind of movement that let you hear everything around you while giving away nothing of yourself.
The forest felt empty. Dead. Like something had passed through and scared every living thing into hiding.
Tristan's jaw tightened. Six months in Hollow Oak, and he'd thought he understood this place. Thought he'd catalogued its rhythms and learned its secrets. Kieran had vouched for him when the Council needed someone who could rebuild their security infrastructure from the ground up, and Tristan had thrown himself into the work with the same intensity he brought to everything.
Structure. Purpose. Control.
Now something was walking through their carefully constructed protections like they were made of smoke and wishful thinking.
The town lights, faint and warm from here, flickered through the storm from the lanterns along the square, the Silver Fang’s windows glowing amber behind frost-thick glass, the Hearth & Hollow Inn shining steadily through swirling snow.
As he approached the split in the path where the woods met Hollow Oak proper, another voice cut through the storm.
“Evening, Officer Ash!”
Tristan slowed as Twyla Honeytree emerged from her tea shop’s back porch, bundled in a thick burgundy cloak, cheeks rosy from heat inside. Steam drifted from the mug she held.
“What’re you doing out in this?” he asked.
“Checking on my delivery crates. Fae enchantments don’t hold well in this cold.” She squinted. “You look like trouble found you.”
“Not yet.”
“Storm’s bad enough without anything extra.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I saw something and now I’m pretending it’s fine’ look. Lucien had it last week. Never a good sign.”
Tristan didn’t respond. Twyla stepped closer, her voice lowering.
“You be careful, tiger. Winter storms stir old things.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Anything specific?”
“No.” She shrugged one shoulder. “But when the Veil tightens like this, things slip. Small things. Big things. Shadow things.” She sipped her tea. “Just watch your back.”
“I always do.”
She gave him a knowing smile. “Well, watch the front too. And the sides. You’re tall enough to have all sorts of angles.”
“Goodnight, Twyla.”
“Stay warm, sweetheart.”
He shook his head and walked on. The warmth of town wrapped around him gradually as lanterns swayed on hooks, fires burned behind tavern windows, and the faint smell of cinnamon from Griddle & Grind warmed him.
