Chapter 1: Departure

The early hours painted the room in muted hues of orange and yellow, the soft glow of candlelight casted gentle shadows on the wooden walls of Cyrus’s house. The dwelling was an amalgamation of druidic magic and ancient willow trees. She pulsated with life; the very essence of nature intertwined with her construction. In the heart of this house of living wood, Cyrus silently prepared for the upcoming hunt, taking great measures not to disturb the tranquility within the magical house.

Her walls seemed to breathe with a gentle pulse this time of the morning. It was as if the heartbeat of the forest echoed within her chambers. Blossoming vines adorned the floors and walls with patterns that changed from day to day, responding to the ancient magic that sustained the house. In several hours, sunlight would begin to filter through the leaves and branches that served as her windows, casting a dappled pattern of light upon her verdant floor. The house stood as a living testament to the ever so delicate balance between druidic magic and the natural world, a harmonious blend of the mundane and the mystical. She was a picture of beauty. A balance between elegance and strength.

The air was thick, heavy with the scent of aged leather and a subtle tang of well-maintained, oiled weaponry. Cyrus moved with a grace born of countless mornings identical to this one. Mornings that were spent gearing up for the hunt, silently, so as not to disturb his lover. He ran through his checklists, ensuring he had everything he needed. His fingers danced over the worn handles of his tools; each piece having been chosen with precision for a specific purpose. His routine was efficient, sharpened by mistakes made in the past. Failures in previous hunts, he realized, always proved to teach him more than any book or manual could have. No matter how many books a man can read, there is just no substitute for experience. The dull sheen of well-worn armor and glint of sharpened blades spoke volumes about his previous hunts. It was never certain as to what foe may be encountered in these woods, and yet, time and time again, he marched on into the darkness to face the unknown.

As the final adjustments to his gear were made, Cyrus’s lover lay peacefully in bed. With a gentle rustle, she stirred from her sleep. Her milky white eyes met her closest approximation of where Cyrus must be standing.

“Good morning,” she whispered, the words carrying the soft lingering cadence left from some sweet dream. Cyrus responded with a gentle smile and a curt nod.

“Good morning, Del,” he replied, eyes darting between his tools, weapons, and armor before drifting over toward his lover. Here, his gaze lingered. Her beauty was always a shelter from his inner turmoil. Her pointed ears, a reminder of her elven heritage, were draped in cascading white locks uncommon for an elf in this region. Her smile was one of innocence, despite knowing hardship and abuse, maybe even more so than Cyrus had experienced in his upbringing. It was in their trauma, after all, that they found common ground and through time, they grew to be thankful for the scars of their past lives. He never had to explain things to her. He didn’t need to hide his fears from her. He didn’t have to justify his pain or his mistrust of people, nor did he need to tiptoe around her. She completely and totally understood him and over their precious few years together, they had managed to form a trust that transcended everything else: true love in its purest form.

The embrace that followed the brief exchange spoke of the challenges the two had faced together over the years. In that moment, time seemed to pause, and the living house seemed to hold her breath. Their connection, forged through laughter and tears, spoke louder than any spoken vow ever could. The softness of her touch, the way his arms enveloped her with a protective cloak of reassurance, it echoed a love that had weathered storms and basked in the sunlight of countless mornings.

The melodious tune of birds in the canopy above reminded them both the world outside their loving embrace. Begrudgingly, Cyrus released Del. Her fingers lingered on his arm.

“Come back to me,” she whispered.

“Always have, haven’t I?” he dared.

Laden with the tools of the hunt, Cyrus stepped out of the house, her doors closing gracefully behind him. The magic within her walls continued its timeless dance with nature, as Cyrus embarked on a new journey under the shadowed canopy of the waking forest. The time had drawn near. The hunt had begun.

The moon hung like a silver lantern in the clear sky, casting an ethereal glow over the otherwise vibrant landscape as Cyrus descended the hill. With each step, the grass made a muffled hiss, the only disruption in the silent autumn air aside from the birdsong overhead. The growing chill in the air highlighted his every breath in a silvery dance. As he reached the bottom of their hill, the chill in the air gradually grew colder. Their hill, magically protected from the harsh climates of this altitude, bore fresh fruits and vegetables year round. It was always a wonderous sight to behold. Nestled between the freezing mountain ranges of the north and the great plains of the Frejldenvast, the hill they chose was encompassed by otherworldly beauty. No doubt, if it were not for the magic veil of concealment placed upon the hill, the cruel world would surely have taken it long ago.

At the base of the hill, Cyrus approached his sled with stubborn determination and purpose. The sled, a weathered companion of numerous adventures, awaited its cargo. With a practiced hand, he arranged his gear- an assortment of traps, a well-worn bow, and a quiver filled with carefully fletched arrows. Each item found its place with a ritualistic precision that came with weeks of planning and anticipation. This would not be like the last hunt. This time, he was going to get that buck, even if it killed him.

Cyrus pulled on his sled and headed east, unfurling a map of his own creation. The map was marked with sketches and scribbles denoting the natural landmarks of the area and behavioral patterns of the wildlife. If living in the untamed wilderness taught him one thing, it was to know your surroundings. Judging by his map of the area, the clearing he was searching for was at least a 3-hour trek into the forests in the foothills of the mountain. Climbing through the silent woods, he followed a lightly-trodden path left from his meticulous observations of the deer’s habits. The sled trailed behind him, leaving tracks of disturbed snow. As he ventured, he added new details to the map, an ever-changing document that mirrored the expanding knowledge of its cartographer. As the first hour passed, Cyrus came to his first major landmark on the map. Climbing to the top of a gentle sloping boulder, he noticed something peculiar.

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There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere that hung in the air as Cyrus peered out into the dark wood. All at once, his instincts, honed by years of hunts just like this one, told him what was missing. The world had gone still. An uncanny silence filled the snowy underbrush, illuminated only by the pale moonlight. There was an absence of the natural life so ever consistently present, one only notices when it suddenly vanishes. Shadows played tricks around every rock and tree trunk. Maybe it was paranoia. Perhaps he was imagining things. But he couldn’t ignore the whisper of something lingering just beyond the edge of his perception.

Cyrus vaulted from the boulder, smoothly gliding down its surface until he deftly reached out, seizing a conveniently low-hanging branch. With an elegant display of agility, he pivoted, wrapping his body around the tree trunk, and expertly positioning his feet on either side. In a seamless motion, he initiated a dynamic leap, propelling himself with grace and precision toward the awaiting branches above. Leaving his sled atop the boulder, Cyrus searched the area from this new vantage point, attempting to spot this presence within the darkness. His search efforts, despite being thorough, revealed nothing of note. After 5 minutes of continued vigilance, life within the forest returned. The morning birds resumed their song; the wind rustled through the leaves once more. Even still, Cyrus held his position until he was satisfied. For as long as he was up here, the creature would have to climb the same tree to reach him, and that was a comfort. Another 5 minutes came and went before Cyrus tentatively descended the gnarled trunk. He reached his sled and with great effort, took a deep breath in.

Center yourself, He inwardly commanded. Stay vigilant. Gather your strength.

Memories flashed in his mind. Moments between him and his father. Before any hunt or bloody raid, his tribe of half-giants relied on a method to calm themselves in times of distress. A sort of deep-breathing battle meditation to calm the nerves before a kill. The deep breaths allowed one to regain control of one’s body and regain command of one’s thoughts. After a moment’s pause, he resumed his journey. Once more down the boulder, sled in tow, he marched on through the dark wood.

. . .

Before long, the trees within this thick wood gradually began to thin, giving way to the steepening icy inclines which continued up the mountain. The familiar biting cold in the air began to eat at the sensation in his hands and feet. He halfheartedly attempted to shake out the numbness in his extremities before pushing the issue to the back of his mind. His body always had a natural resistance to cold. It would no doubt take care of itself, much like it always did. Besides, he hadn't the time to worry about such a trivial thing. This hunt wasn't about the food. He had more than enough food for him and Del to survive on. The meat would of course be a satisfying change of pace compared to the usual vegetables of the garden, but this hunt meant more than that to him. He had to keep his skills sharp. He had to be ready. If his skills ever failed him in a time of need; if he failed to be every bit of the man he was supposed to be, then what would that mean? Was his father right about him after all these years?

Cyrus scoffed at the very thought.

His father was a prideful beast. A ferocious, blood thirsty killer. A raider. He was cruel and demanded Cyrus to be the same.

Cyrus could never measure up to the man his father was. It just wasn't in his nature, and perhaps it never would be.

The ascent began as a relentless battle against the elements. Cyrus trudged upward, each step a negotiation with the icy slopes that threatened to send him sliding back down. The rocky outcrops and snow-covered slopes demanded precision in each movement, leaving no room for failure. The slope grew steeper, and the sled, initially a companion, transformed into a cumbersome burden. It was at this point where he knew he would have to leave it behind. He found a jagged rock formation behind which to tuck the sled for safe keeping, as it would serve its purpose in transporting his kill only after he succeeded in his mission. After shedding the unnecessary weight, Cyrus continued the ascent of the formidable slopes with a renewed agility, unencumbered.

He paused briefly to catch his breath, seeking once more to reference his map. The cold making it difficult for his fingers to unfold, he eventually managed to remove the map from his back and discern his relative position. He was approaching the cliff’s base, a place where he traditionally opted for a safe, hour-long path he had carved through the snow. But today marked a departure from the norm. Today, he wasn’t seeking the safety of the familiar route; instead, he was driven to test his limits. It was at the foot of this cliff, where the rocks were rendered unstable and slicked by the nearby towering waterfall, that he would embark on a treacherous climb.

As he drew closer to the cliff, the distant roar of the waterfall grew louder. The rocks beneath his fur boots became slippery, adding an extra layer of difficulty to the ascent, constantly testing his balance. The powerful cascade created a misty veil, enveloping the surroundings in an ethereal fog. Using the rocks and sparse vegetation as foot holds, Cyrus crested the hill, revealing the waterfall in all its splendor. The waters parted upon the rocky precipice at the top, cascading in a tapestry of pure white, dancing upon the jagged formations that protruded from the mountain as they rushed past. The frost-kissed air made it difficult for Cyrus to keep his eyes open as he craned his head around to gaze at the world below. The sun had begun to crest on the distant horizon of the planes just enough for the warm yellow light to catch the falling water droplets. It was a graceful ballet of liquid diamonds, each falling in defiance of the brutal cold. This moment of tranquility, an oasis amid the arduous journey. He could never tire of such an intimate view. He took a moment to catch his breath, seated upon a long-ago uprooted tree. The sunrise warmed his stone-gray skin, dancing in his stark white hair. He took a deep breath in. The final stretch demanded a vertical climb beside the waterfall of approximately 100 meters.

Center yourself. He exhaled, standing to his full height, a mighty 7 feet tall.

He turned to face the sheer cliff. Now came the hard part. No room for error.