"It’s really cold today, huh, Betsy?"

Aron’s voice, light and playful, echoed through the sparse, snow-covered underbrush. He stood atop a slope overlooking a small hollow. From there, the square, old house built by his grandfather was visible—set in a spot shielded from the harshest, coldest winds.

“Not much more than yesterday… or the day before,” replied a voice—mocking, almost disdainful, the kind that couldn’t stand pointless chatter.

“Can’t even talk anymore, huh…” Aron sighed theatrically, exaggerating as though someone had truly offended him.

“Aron… are you going to finish loading the wood onto the sled, or will you keep chatting with a stupid mule?” This time, the disdain wasn’t sarcastic—it was real.

“Oh, and talking to you is so different, huh? Yeah, right. You’re just another part of me, imagined by me. You’re no better than the mule you just called stupid.” The words burst from Aron’s mind all at once as he threw the last branch onto the sled.

“You know I’m nothing like Betsy… hahahaha! Don’t pretend otherwise. And admit it, you’re enjoying this. After all, even if all of this is fake—a conversation with no one—the emotions it sparks are real. And honestly, they warm you up pretty well!”

“Come on, Betsy, time to go home,” Aron called. The mule approached, each step sinking into the soft snow that had stopped falling only that morning. In the cold clearing, only the sound of the wind and Betsy’s breathing broke the silence. But as Aron tied the sled, the conversation in his mind continued, absurd and comical.

“Yes, we know it very well. We know it soooo well!”

“Finally, we can head home. To shelter.”

“Yeah, shelter, sure.”

“The warmest, coziest place of all.”

"AHAHAHAHAHA!" Aron’s laughter echoed across the slope leading home.

The door opened with a loud creak, dragging across the wooden floor and deepening the groove already worn there. “The hinge,” Aron muttered with a look that showed he’d forgotten to fix it too many times—or maybe he just didn’t care anymore.

Before him, at the far end of the room—too large and too empty—sat his mother near the stove. She was in a chair, not just any chair, but a special one covered in furs to make the wood warmer and less hard. Melissa sat motionless, expressionless, like a frozen corpse. Despite the blankets draped over her shoulders and the fire’s proximity, nothing melted her. Her gaze was fixed on the table before her, her hands resting folded on her lap, pale as death.

“Here I am, Mom! Your handsome boy is back! Won’t you give me a big smile?” His cheerful voice, accompanied by a wide grin, filled the room, drowning out the crackling of the wood in the stove. But nothing. The only reply was the wind against the windows and the sound of the burning fire.

“Of course not,” he said, his tone returning to monotony. His cheerfulness had been a mockery, but directed at whom, even he wasn’t sure.

“Come on, time for lunch.” In the large room, which served as both a living area and a kitchen, Aron began to cook. A simple soup of rye and dried meat—enough to warm and feed them. Throughout the entire preparation, Aron spoke to his mother with the same cheerful tone as before, though it was destined to be a one-sided conversation. Her only action was the movement of her spoon. Watching it, Aron thought, “I wonder when she’ll stop even doing that.” The thought, directed at his mother, scared him—not for the act itself, but for the lack of fear it caused in him. It felt like an expectation, or something he dared not delve into.

Once they’d eaten, Aron added wood to the stove and adjusted the blanket to cover his mother better. Then he lay down on his bed, but in that moment…

“It’s time. The sun sets earlier every day.”

“I know, I know. It’s just that… I’m tired.”

“So what do you want to do? You’ve been tired for years. Now grab that damn bow and go kill something.”

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“Yes, fine, I’ll go! I’ll go!”

“You love playing the victim, don’t you? It’s clear you inherited your mother’s blood…”

“Yes, I have her blood, and yes, maybe I’m crazy. But damn it, I won’t end up like her, and you know it. I’d rather die in some stupid, ridiculous way.”

With the final thought, and as he left the house, a muffled laugh escaped him. It was an expression of joy that betrayed something far darker.

Aron entered the forest, moving beyond the younger trees where he’d gathered wood that morning, stepping into the true wilderness. “Nothing here either” he whispered to the wind.

“That was the last one, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, you know it… and don’t laugh, bastard.”

After checking all five traps, he’d found nothing—not that it was surprising. But today Aron didn’t feel very “balanced,” and his face showed it: furrowed brows, corners of his mouth turned upward, forming an expression of disdain mixed with rage.

“Oh, poor little Aron is angry. The world’s out to get him, nothing ever goes his way! Oh, shut up, idiot. Do you really think anyone would waste their time playing with us? We’re nothing in the middle of nothing, finding NOTHING! That’s the truth. And don’t even think about going home empty-handed like every other day. Get out there and kill something. Anything.”

Silence. There was only silence and frost in the forest. Even Aron’s eyes were icy. In contrast to the fire raging in his mind, his body stood still, like a frozen statue in a frozen world. Slowly, his body began to move—toward a prey he knew he would find. He had to. And deep within his eyes, something began to reignite, though it remained too hazy to take form.

Scrak… scrak…

The sound of Aron’s steps broke the silence, his boots sinking into the snow, occasionally crunching forgotten branches hidden beneath the white blanket, left there since autumn. He walked on, aimless and instinctive, like a puppet whose limbs moved only because someone else pulled the strings. His face, at that moment, bore an uncanny resemblance to his mother’s—pale, empty, as if his mind had frozen at the very moment it shattered. Fractured, yet held together by an unyielding frost, keeping it from breaking entirely.

Aron didn’t know how long he had been walking or how far he had gone when his eyes came back to life. It felt like hours, but the mere fact that the sun was still visible proved him wrong. The sky was already turning red—the twilight drawing near.

Then, a sound—a branch snapping.

He froze. Something was there. A prey. His body transformed instantly, his movements becoming light and feline. At that moment, Aron seemed less human and more predator, perfectly camouflaged against the forest. The pale tone of his skin matched the snow, his dark furs blended with the trees, and his balanced frame was poised for the hunt. Neither tall nor short, neither frail nor broad, he moved with purpose. His long black hair framed his face, shielding him from the cold but not obscuring his sharp gaze.

His mind fell silent, replaced by an intense focus. Slowly, he crept toward the sound, ascending a small ridge. From there, he spotted it—a deer, digging through the snow with its muzzle, searching for the ground beneath. Then, a second movement caught his eye at the base of a tree: a hare.

The choice was before him.

“So, which one?”

“I don’t know…”

“Logically, you should take the hare. Easier to carry. It’s getting late, and you don’t even know how far you are from home.”

“True.”

“Buuut that’s not what you want, is it? You want the deer. Not for the meat, but because it’s stronger. More satisfying to kill.”

Aron didn’t respond, but his lips curled into a smirk as the voice cackled in his head, feeding the chaos in his mind.

“Fuck”

“Hurry up. You can’t wait forever—it’s getting late.”

He raised his bow—his father’s bow—crafted from dark oak with a string made of animal sinew. Simple in design, but effective. He drew the string, the arrow already nocked, his eye aiming at the hare—which, by now, had moved closer to the deer. He couldn’t hold the string taut for long.

Swishhh.

The arrow cut through the air and embedded itself in the deer’s neck.

The sacred silence shattered. Painful cries and the sound of hooves thrashing echoed through the clearing. A white shadow darted away across the snow. Blood stained the monochrome landscape with vivid color.

“Nice shot. Sure, it’s fine to change your mind at the last second—I’m all for irrational decisions—but fuck, at least do it right!” the voice sneered as Aron took off after the deer.

Aron chased after the deer, following the tracks in the snow. Blood stained the path. It was bleeding out, but it was still running. After five minutes, he found it. The deer lay collapsed in the snow, surrounded by crimson. It watched him approach, its legs twitching weakly. Aron knelt down, their eyes locking. Two pairs of black eyes met—two souls. One had just ended the other.

The knife plunged down, silencing the deer’s struggles but not its gaze. Aron stared into its lifeless eyes, unmoving.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” the voice whispered. “You wanted to watch it bleed. To see it run for its life, terrified, trembling in its death.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Just shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Coward.”

Aron exhaled, glancing at the horizon. “What a beautiful sunset, don’t you think?”

The sun was setting, dipping behind the Dragonspine in the distance. It reached the lowest point of its descent, where orange and yellow vanished, leaving only blood-red hues to spill across this white world.