“So… what do you want to do?”

The Voice questioned Aron, as he stared down at the deer, his head bowed.

“It must weigh forty, maybe fifty kilos. I can’t drag it all the way home, let alone carry it on my back—not with night falling.”

It was Fillbror, the month that ended the year and flung open winter’s gates. The sun barely grazed the sky, its fleeting light already fading into the cold afternoon. Darkness was descending, unstoppable.

“A shame. Dragging it was a fun option. Ahhh, so?”

“I’ll cut off the best parts, wrap them in its hide, and head back with just those.”

“Works for me.”

“I know.” The words carried on the wind as Aron gave a slight nod, his gaze fixed on the carcass, thinking about where to start the task.

With the speed born of experience, Aron removed everything he needed from the animal and turned back just as swiftly.

“Home. Finally, we’re heading back. But you’d better hurry—didn’t you hear them?”

The Voice’s mocking tone sliced through the silence.

“What the hell am I doing?!” he thundered, quickening his pace and clenching his fists.

Aron moved as fast as he could, putting distance between himself and the scene of the kill. It was a rare, clear evening, and only the moonlight let him see where he was going. In the thick woods, he could barely trace his footprints in the snow, but something else weighed on his mind.

He’d heard them. Oh, he’d heard them. Wolves. The scent of blood must have drawn them, and a hungry pack was the last thing he wanted to meet.

“Weak.”

“And tell me, what should I do? Fight off a damn pack of wolves, alone, in the dark, with just a bow?”

“You’re scared. You haven’t changed. Still weak.” The Voice spoke with its icy, divine tone, like a judgment passed down from the heavens.

“Yeah, I’m scared, a little. It’s natural…” His words came out as a whisper. “It’s not my fault I didn’t have the qualifications, the talent, or whatever the hell it takes to become a knight!” Aron spat, his voice shaking with frustration.

“Whose body is this? You say it’s yours, so the fault is yours too. And we’re not talking about some special kind of knight—it was the simplest method, Aron. It only required prana… literal life energy. Even plants have it. Even that idiot Dick managed it.” The Voice, sly and cutting, jabbed at an old wound Aron had never managed to heal.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!!”

Awooo… Awooo… Awooo…

Aron’s thoughts were ripped away, silenced by the howls of wolves carried on the wind. Snow was beginning to fall.

“They’re coming from where the deer was. Strange—they wouldn’t be making this much noise over a carcass.”

“It seems there’s more there than just the carcass.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Rrowwwl… Grrrr… Rrowwwl…

“They sound frightened. Afraid.” Aron stopped, glancing back toward where he had fled.

“Mphh… you recognize fear well,” the Voice replied, relentless as always.

Rrrraaaaaghhhh!

A deafening roar shattered the air—a sound that blended the hiss of a reptile with the screech of a raptor. It drowned out the wolves’ howls and the wind that hissed through the snow-laden treetops.

Then, in the eerie silence that followed, came a series of sharp screeches, like flags whipping in a gale. Through the snow and darkness, a long, winged figure emerged. With the moon at its back, it looked like nothing more than a colossal shadow. But in its talons, something glinted—prey.

Aron froze, breathless. “What… what was that?” he whispered, his voice trembling with both curiosity and shock. His eyes, wide and glassy like the deer’s, were locked on the talons—or rather, what they held.

“I’d guess a wyvern. More specifically, a green wyvern. We are, after all, in the Greenwing Forest” the Voice replied seriously, answering a question directed at no one in particular, but one both of them needed answered.

“I’ve heard of them… but I’ve never seen one. No one talks about them anymore, not even in the village…” Aron’s voice wavered, his gaze still clouded with the image of the deer, its broken body clutched in those monstrous claws. Words escaped him, searching for comfort.

“What do you want to know? Why it’s here? Whether it’s alone or brought its whole family of flying lizards? I don’t know everything, but you could try asking her. She seemed friendly.”

“Asshole.” The word carried a frosty edge, as Aron’s mind was dragged back to the frozen wasteland around him.

“Home. Do you remember what we’re doing?”

Aron resumed his journey, cloaked in darkness and snow, with each step sinking deep into it. The moonlight grew weaker, but his house came closer—a distant beacon in the frozen night, offering the promise of shelter, though not of solace.

SBAM!

The door burst open, halting halfway and earning an angry glare from Aron.

“When will you fix it?” The Voice’s mocking tone cut through the wind.

“Never!” Aron shot back, his voice firm.

The door, along with Aron, welcomed the biting cold and the snow, carried inside by the howling wind of the snowy night. With a sharp motion, Aron slammed it shut and stormed toward the stove, ignoring everything else in the room. He needed warmth—now.

The fire inside was nearly dead, its embers faint and fragile. He grabbed some old wood from the basket nearby, dry and ready, collected days earlier. As he opened the stove’s door and added the logs, the fire crackled to life, flames springing up in a desperate surge.

A sudden burst of hot air and smoke rushed into his face, stinging his eyes and filling his nostrils with its sharp, acrid scent. His head jerked back instinctively, trying to escape the onslaught, as his watering eyes blinked rapidly against the irritation.

After warming himself enough to feel the blood flowing back into his limbs, Aron stepped out of the house. He still wore his coat; it had been only a brief pause to thaw out, but the work wasn’t done yet.

At the shed behind the house, he placed the meat into the ice pit dug into the ground. It was a temporary measure; he would use the drying rack the next morning, but for now, he lacked the energy. His mind was unusually quiet, perhaps from exhaustion, or perhaps because it hadn’t yet processed the events of the night. It was a heavy silence, in sharp contrast to the storm raging outside.

Braving the icy wind that bit at his face, he went back inside. He removed his damp clothes and boots, leaving them near the stove to dry. Finally warm and dry, he reheated the leftover soup from lunch and sat at the table. Across from him sat his mother. She hadn’t moved an inch since the afternoon. Only the slow rise and fall of her chest betrayed that she was still alive. The soup in her bowl remained untouched; she must not have been hungry, though she hadn’t moved during the day.

Aron finished his meal and left the table as it was. Then, without haste but with determination, he made his way to his room. He threw himself onto the bed, letting the warmth of the blankets envelop him. For a moment, the cold, the wind, and even his thoughts seemed to vanish.

The days passed, and Fillbror grew colder. The twenty-first of the month approached: the Day of the Dragon, when frost and darkness descend upon the earth. But for Aron, it also meant something else—his twentieth birthday, on the day before, the twentieth.

As the date drew closer, the strange stillness that had enveloped him began to crack. His mind stirred, tormented by a growing restlessness. The Voice, once a whisper, grew into a resounding song. Dormant emotions surged, a crescendo that the ice could no longer hold back.

The current wanted to overflow, to break through its banks and flood everything in its path. The wind wanted to blow free, uncaring of the earth. The fire wanted to burn, to destroy everything… even if it meant consuming itself.