“Stop looking like you’re about to bolt,” Griff murmured under his breath as he stepped in close behind me, his presence solid and familiar. “It’s just your birthday, Tam.”
“You’re the one who said, ‘you ready’ like I’m about to be stabbed,” I shot back, turning to face him.
He chuckled. “If anyone stabs you, it’s gonna be me. And only if you deserve it.”
“Comforting.”
“That’s my job,” he said easily, but his gaze flicked beyond me, scanning the tree line reflexively before it settled back on me.
My father stood and set the hook aside. He reached behind the log and pulled out something wrapped in an old tartan. The vintage cloth had faded to the color of a stormy sky.
My mother stepped forward and placed her palms on myshoulders. “We wanted to give you something special this year,” she said softly.
My father’s mouth twitched. “You’ve been eyeing my belt knives for two years,” he said.
“I have not,” I lied.
He raised a brow.
I shut my mouth and grinned, because he was one hundred percent right.
He offered the bundle to me, and for a heartbeat my hands didn’t want to move. Superstition. Fear. The part of me that knew gifts always came with strings attached even when people pretended that they didn’t.
Then Griff nudged my elbow. “Take it, Tam.”
So I did.
The cloth was soft and worn, smelling faintly of smoke and rosemary. My fingers fumbled with the rope knotted around it, suddenly clumsy under everyone’s watchful eyes. I heard my mother make a little pleased hum, like she could already taste the moment I realized what it was.
The cloth fell away.
Steel winked in the firelight.
It was a blade.
It wasn’t big, like some heroic sword out of a story. It was practical, balanced, the blade leaf-shaped and slightly curved, made for cutting and skinning and the quick, clean work of survival. The handle was dark wood wrapped in a dark brown braided leather, fitted to a grip that felt like it had been measured against my palm while I slept.
I ran my thumb along the spine, careful not to touch the edge, and swallowed hard.
“This—” My voice broke. I cleared my throat and tried again. “This is mine?”
My father nodded. His eyes were too bright, and it made my heart tighten behind my ribs. “Griff and I made it,” he grinned. “Scrap steel from an old boat. Took us a month to get the balance right.”
Griff lifted one shoulder like it was nothing, but he looked awfully pleased with himself. “Your dad’s better at the fine work. I just hit things until they do what I want.”
“You did the sheath too,” my mother corrected, and her mouth curved with pride. She stepped in and held up a strip of leather. “And this.”
She handed me a beautifully stitched sheath with a loop that would sit snug against my thigh. The leather was stamped with a simple mark on it, a small crescent, like a sliver of moon.
“The old symbol,” Aunt Moira murmured quietly from the edge of the circle. “For safe hunting.”
I breathed out slowly, the knife warm in my hands from the fire and from the weight of everyone’s attention. It felt… right. Like it had been waiting for me for all my life.
“Go on, Tam,” Griff said, leaning in a little. His voice dropped, softer. “Try it.”
I slid the blade into the sheath. The fit was perfect, that satisfying whisper as steel met leather. I pulled it free again, watched the edge catch the light of the fire, then tucked it back home.
A tremor ran through me, part excitement, part anticipation. Growing up, I’d learned how to track rabbits in the bracken, learned the patience of snares and the silence of stalking. I knew that this knife would be the next step in learning how to take care of myself.
