On the third morning after Bren’s arrival, the village felt strangely hollow. The ordinary talk of the lanes had died down; everyone was waiting on Harold’s word.
Just after the sun cleared the crags, a herder boy ran down from the northern boundary, shouting that he’d found fresh sign by the upper creek. Harold took three of the senior track-men and went up the trail immediately. Kaelen followed a dozen paces behind, his skinning knife already on his belt, and Aether came last, determined not to be left in the yard.
The print was set deep in the black silt where the water trickled through the moss.
The old trappers knelt in the mud, arguing over the shape. One claimed it was a lean timber wolf; another swore it was a stray mastiff from the lower plains; a third thought two distinct animals had crossed the same stone.
Kaelen stood on the dry bank, his arms crossed, watching the old men bicker. When they finally stood up without a consensus, he stepped into the silt. He didn't look at the main print; he reached under a clump of wild fern two feet away and pulled back the grass.
"It's no wolf from the lowlands," Kaelen said.
The oldest trapper looked back, half-amused. "And how does a boy out-see the men who taught him?"
Kaelen pointed to the shallow ridge of mud behind the stone. "A healthy wolf keeps its toes straight when it drops off the ledge. This one dragged its hock. The iron or the stone took its sinew two days ago, up on the high shale. It's moving with the drift, and it's hungry."
The trapper frowned, knelt back down in the muck, and ran his horn-handled knife along the fern root. He stood up slowly, looking at Harold. "The lad has the eye."
Harold didn't give a nod. He stood on the dry gravel, staring at the print Kaelen had uncovered, his mouth set in a hard line.
That afternoon, while Bren was changing his linen wrap, the wound tore slightly, the red seepage soaking through the fresh dressing. The miller’s wife was down at the tubs, and Bren sat on the bench with sweat dripping from his lip. Aether didn't wait to be told; he fetched the boiling kettle, found the clean flax strips in the iron chest, and began sorting the dried comfrey leaves. His movements were hurried, his fingers nearly mixing the heart-wort with the poultice, but he kept his head down and worked until the bleeding stopped.
Bren watched the boy wipe the red water from the wooden stool. "You've patched men before?"
"Only an ox with a torn heel," Aether said, not looking up.
"Then why are your hands moving so fast?"
Aether paused, the wet flax held between his fingers. "Because you're three days out from your own hearth, and bleeding doesn't stop at a boundary stone."
Bren looked at him, his hard hunter’s eyes softening as he leaned his head back against the timber.
At dusk, Garan walked up the lane to Harold’s longhouse, using his ash staff to feel the stones. He sat on the bench by the hearth, accepted a cup of pine-tea, and sat in the smoke for ten minutes without speaking a word.
"How old were you when you crossed the high gap?" Garan asked suddenly, his blind eyes turning toward the fire.
Harold didn't shift his boots.
"Older than Kaelen?" Garan pressed.
Harold shook his head.
"Older than the weaver's boy?"
Harold looked down into his own cup. "No."
Garan stood up, his staff hitting the floorboards with a hollow thump. He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the latch as if to say something more, then stepped out into the dark without a sound.
The next morning, Kaelen was sitting on the horse-block behind the forge, drawing a flat file across his hunting blade. A broad shadow fell across his oil-stone.
Harold stood there, the sheepskin map held under his arm. He didn't speak; he simply unrolled the leather across Kaelen’s knees and pointed to the narrow draw near the dry creek.
"If you take the line through the birch-gap, you'll reach the Stony Creek marker by the third noon," Harold said flatly.
Kaelen’s hand went perfectly still on the iron file.
"There's sweet water in the draw," Harold continued, his finger moving along the charcoal line. "But don't let the men camp under the ridge-wall. The north wind drops the shale when the sun goes down." He rolled the sheepskin back up, his large fingers tight on the grain, and held it out. "Keep the track. Don't lose the line."
Harold turned toward the forge, then stopped. "Tell Aether to leave the sling stones."
Kaelen looked up, but Harold was already walking away.
Kaelen took the leather, his knuckles going white against the grease-stained sheepskin. "Aye," he said, his voice small but steady as iron.
Five minutes later, Aether was helping Bren cinch his pack when Kaelen dropped the rolled map into the grain basket.
"What's this?" Aether asked.
Kaelen picked up his iron-tipped spear from the wall. "We're moving. Harold gave the word."
Aether stood frozen, his hand still on Bren’s buckle, watching the light catch the steel tip of Kaelen’s spear. Beyond the gate, the Old Stone Road disappeared into the trees.