Part One
The Girl in the Snow
TEN YEARS AGO
Chapter 1
TEN YEARS AGO
The forest is quiet, but the air is heavy with danger.
Snowflakes drift from the thick canopy of twisted branches overhead as I creep through the brittle undergrowth.
My hunting knives are drawn and ready, one in each hand. My footfalls are silent. Years of hunting in these mountains have taught me how to move between fallen branches and navigate around debris without making a sound.
Twenty paces to my left, my father and brother stay close together, moving silently as a team. Like me, they’re wearing thick, fur coats that conceal the handmade leather armor underneath.
Even with the warmth of the fur, falling snow chills my cheeks and nose. I’ve learned to live with the cold and survive despite it.
Across the distance, Father signals to the tightly gathered trees that rise up about thirty paces directly ahead of us, where the morning sunlight doesn’t reach and the shadows are deepest.
Small signs indicate the presence of the creatures we’re tracking. Smudges of black ooze across the ice in front of thetrees, the density of the unusually lush leaves, the way the branches lie low, and the soft rustle within them.
Father holds up his hand for me to halt and I immediately draw to a stop.
A moment later, Thoren—my brother—steps quietly to the left, taking up position behind the trunk of a tree situated thirty paces from our target. Crouching in the crisp snow built up around its base, he retrieves an arrow and nocks it to his bow.
He gives our father a nod to indicate that he’s ready.
Thoren is thirteen. Four years younger than I am. But he’s nearly as tall and broad-shouldered as I am, and this isn’t his first hunt. Father and I have been training him since he could pick up a bow and he’s proven to be a fast learner. These days, he can shoot an arrow even more accurately than I can.
Which is just as well because Father wants him as far from the fight as possible.
Two hours ago, before we left the safety of our home deep within the heart of the mountain range, Father reminded him: Stay back, shoot from a distance, let Erik do the cutting.
I have no issue with that, except that the deadly creatures infesting this part of the mountain have become more unpredictable over the last few months. If Thoren can’t defend himself up close—if he isn’t used to getting blood on his hands and on his face—he’ll be in trouble if the creatures get past me.
Thoren seems to sense my anxiety, glancing across the distance, his gray eyes bright with concentration.
He cocks his head, as if to say:Stop worrying, Erik.
I’ll never stop worrying.
It’s fear that brings me out here every day, hunting the beasts that lurk in this forest.
Fear of running out of food. Fear that the creatures will start nesting closer to our home and kill us in our sleep. Fear thatthey’ll destroy the last of the untainted wildlife that still survives in this part of the mountain range.
Or worse, fear that the dark magicians who live within the walled city at the base of the mountains will discover our existence.
Blacksmiths.
Their infectious magic has poisoned the environment across the mountains, rending and tearing at all natural life. They’ve turned ordinary, peaceful animals into malformed distortions of their original forms. Predators have become irrationally violent beasts that kill for sport instead of food.
Now, Father gives the signal for me to continue forward.
It’s an approach he and I have followed time and time again, and it’s as natural to me as breathing.
I go in first.
