Chapter 1: The Hunt

The herd had vanished before dawn.

For three days they had followed its tracks—broad, deep prints pressed into old snow—yet each morning the trail grew fainter, until now it was nothing but scattered hoof marks and a few dark hairs caught on the thornbrush. The hunters stood in the half-light, their breath clouding around them, silence pressing close.

Korr felt the emptiness of the plain in his bones. It was the silence of starvation—the slow, patient kind that waited for men to falter. The wind came down from the ice cliffs, hard and sharp, cutting through the furs on his shoulders.

They had only one spear left with a good point, his. The others had been blunted or split against stone or frost. The women and children waited far behind, hungry, counting on this hunt.

Lura had been the first to see movement on the ridge—a flicker of brown, the promise of meat. She had gone ahead, light on her feet, the snow creaking beneath her. The others spread out in a half-circle. Korr followed, his breath loud in his ears, spear ready.