Summer arrived shortly after Ean’s departure.
For the first few days, the longhouses still spoke of him, wondering how far the wool-wagon had rolled and whether the northern tracks would confuse a boy from the vale. Rowan even insisted that, had it been his own youth, he would have reached the salt coast by the third twilight. No one knew if the old storyteller had ever laid eyes on the sea, but they let him speak. Soon enough, the mentions grew thin. It was not forgetfulness, but simply the stubborn weight of the daily haul. The valley floor turned a thick, vibrant green, the river grass grew tall enough to hide a calf, and the people of Ashvale kept their heads down.
Yet the season left its mark. Aether discovered he could lift a brine-barrel clean off the turf by himself—a load that had required two boys the winter before.
Kaelen’s transformation was more distinct. Throughout the spring, Harold had begun sending him into the ridge timber alone. Not too deep into the wild, but it was true hunting. He would disappear for a night or two, returning with a roe deer slung across his shoulders, the soft curves of boyhood completely scoured from his face. Even Matthew had paused by the forge one afternoon, grunting, "You're looking more like your father every season, lad." Kaelen had not offered an answer, keeping his eyes on his oil-stone as he drew his hunting blade across the grain. Harold had heard it too, but he merely offered a small, quiet crease of his eyes and returned to his hammer.
As for Aether, the questions came less frequently now. He had begun to watch instead. It wasn't something Garan could teach with bone needles, but a quiet sharpness that grew under his own ribs.
The vale remained steady until one summer twilight.
The dogs began to bay near the lower pens. First a lone hound, then a second, then a third, until every animal along the river track was snarling. It wasn't the high, eager yapping that followed a red fox or a mountain hare, but a low, vibrating note of caution.
Men dropped their tools. Aether and Kaelen, who were hauling the evening gill-nets out of the shallows, stood frozen in the weeds and looked toward the ridge path.
A lone figure was descending through the birch trees, his gait slow and heavy as lead. He wore the scarred leather jack of a ridge hunter, but his left shoulder was bound in coarse hemp rags, stained the dark, stiff brown of dried blood. His boots were caked in gray mountain clay, his face hollowed by hunger. He looked like a man who had crawled out of a week-long nightmare. As he reached the village gate, his knee buckled, and he swayed toward the dirt.
Kaelen dropped his side of the net and dropped into a dead run, catching the stranger by the arm before he hit the gravel.
The hunter blinked, his bloodshot eyes staring at Kaelen’s broad shoulders as if surprised to find solid earth beneath him. "My thanks," he rasped, his throat dry as brick-dust.
Harold was already there, his large frame pushing through the gathering circle. He took one look at the brown rags and nodded to Kaelen. "Sit him down."
No one asked questions. The people of Ashvale knew that a man who had walked his boots thin across the high ridges did not need an interrogation; he needed cold water, clean linen, and salve.
By nightfall, the stranger was resting in the small timber shed behind the mill, his shoulder scrubbed and packed with green salve. He slept for several hours and woke only when the moon cleared the eastern crag.
The elders gathered in the small room: Harold, Garan, the miller, and two old trappers from the upper forest. Aether and Kaelen sat on the wood-box near the door, keeping quiet.
The hunter sat up, his fingers twisting a wooden cup of weak ale. "My name is Bren," he said low. "From Stony Creek."
The elders exchanged glances; no one knew the track. It lay on the far northern slope of the crags, days out of Ashvale’s territory.
"We didn't mean to bring our troubles down the mountain," Bren said, looking into his cup. "But the iron's failed us. It started with a brace of wolves in the sheep-folds. Then more. Then they began hunting by the high sun."
Harold’s brow creased, but he kept his pipe down.
"We thought it was a lean year for the deer," Bren continued, his voice steady but flat. "Until last month. The hounds won't take the scent anymore—they sit in the dirt and howl. The pit-traps are cleared out by morning, but the timber's left unbroken. Now the packs are sitting in the scrub right outside the fences." He touched his stiff left shoulder. "Three men down since the full moon."
The small room grew cold. The firelight flickered over the heavy timbers of the wall. Bren didn't tell tales of monsters; he didn't raise his voice. He spoke with the dry precision of a man counting split wood, which made the grain of it heavier.
"How long?" Harold asked.
"Three moons," Bren replied.
"The size of the packs?"
"Too large to count by the track."
"The drift?"
Bren named three valleys to the north. Aether had never heard the names, but he saw Garan’s hand tighten on his iron-shod staff. The elders understood.
The questions turned specific—wind-drift, hoof-signs, the timing of the mountain elk migration, and the state of the high passes. Aether lost the thread of the wood-craft, but Kaelen leaned forward, his gray eyes fixed on Bren’s mouth, not missing a single breath.
When the elders rose to leave, the moon was high and white over the vale.
Aether and Kaelen walked the dark lane toward the forge in silence. After a hundred paces, Aether rubbed his arms against the night chill. "You think he tells it true?"
Kaelen didn't look up from the dirt. "I don't know the northern ridges." He paused, turning his eyes toward the lean-to behind their house. A yellow lantern was already burning there, casting a long, broad shadow across the wood-pile. "But Harold believes him."
"How can you tell?"
Kaelen watched the shadow move against the shed wall. "He's already sorting the iron."
Aether followed his gaze. From the lean-to came the faint scrape and clink of iron being laid out in rows.