Grace

---Grace---

#Grace

I take a half breath in, the frozen air burning my lungs as I draw back the bowstring. The fletching tickles my ear—a familiar sensation that grounds me in the moment. I exhale and release, watching with satisfaction as the arrow flies true, burying itself in the deer's flank just behind the left shoulder. The creature falls without a sound, its impact muffled by several feet of new snow while the rest of the herd startles, bleating in alarm before stampeding away, their panicked flight kicking up clouds of powder in the now-compacted drifts.

I nod, pleased with the clean kill. I drop the ten feet from my branch and move toward the dead deer on silent feet. Hefting the corpse across my shoulders with a grunt, I carefully avoid the head—no need to deal with those meat-ripping teeth. I glance at my arrow, intending to pull it free, but click my tongue in displeasure when I find the arrowhead has broken upon the creature's spine. I can make another, though it will take time I could use for other things.

I reach my small camp—a tactical spot I've been using to stalk this herd for three days as they feed on burrowing creatures. Grunting with effort, I lower the corpse onto the central slab, little more than a smooth rock at the center of a small niche within the pines.

I sink to my knees beside the carcass, feeling the cold seep through my worn tactical pants. This clearing has served me well—three days of patient observation rewarded with a clean kill. The animal never sensed my presence until it was too late.

I unsheathe my bone knife, the handle warm against my palm despite the biting cold. The blade's edge catches weak winter sunlight filtering through pine branches. Sharp enough. I position the animal on the flat stone I cleared yesterday, turning it to access the hindquarters first.

My first cut slices through hide just above the ankle joint, precise and controlled. Blood wells dark against pale fur. I work methodically, fingers finding the space between skin and muscle, separating connective tissue with practiced movements. The knife serves only where fingers cannot separate naturally. Skinning isn't about cutting—it's about finding the body's natural divisions and respecting them.

The hide peels back under my hands, revealing the glistening subcutaneous layer beneath. I feel each separation—the slight resistance before tissue yields. My fingers grow slick with blood and fat as I work the skin down toward the head, using my knuckles to create tension where adhesion is strongest.

"Keep it intact," I mutter to myself, not conversation but instruction. A damaged hide means wasted resources. The druid would approve of my technique—maximum efficiency, minimal effort.

When I reach the front legs, I cut carefully around each joint, then continue working the hide forward. The animal's body heat has already faded, making the process harder in the cold air. My breath forms small clouds as I work, the only sound my controlled breathing and the occasional snap of connective tissue.

The hide finally comes free in one piece. I immediately stretch it over a fallen log nearby, flesh side up, and use my knife to scrape remaining tissue from the underside. Too cold to properly tan here, but preparation matters. I'll finish it properly at the settlement.

I return to the carcass, wiping my bloody hands briefly on pine needles. The gutting requires precision. I make a shallow incision at the lower abdomen, careful not to puncture the intestines. The knife parts muscle with minimal resistance. I extend the cut upward toward the sternum, then reach inside, feeling the warm organs.

My fingers work by feel, locating the connective tissues that secure the intestinal tract. I sever these connections with small, controlled cuts, then carefully draw out the entrails in one piece. The metallic scent of blood mixes with the earthier smell of opened organs. I examine the liver closely—healthy, no signs of parasites or disease. The heart follows, then lungs, each inspected and sorted according to use.

Nothing wasted. The organs for immediate consumption go into one pile, those with medicinal properties into another. Even what humans might consider waste has purpose. The intestines will become cordage once cleaned; the bladder, a water container.

I clean the body cavity with handfuls of fresh snow, watching it turn pink, then red as I scoop it out. When satisfied, I begin the jointing process. My hands locate the ball joint where the rear leg meets the pelvis, rotating slightly to feel the connection. The knife finds the gap between bones, slicing through cartilage and tendons with minimal resistance.

Each joint speaks to my fingers—telling me where to cut, how much pressure to apply. The body's architecture reveals itself through touch more than sight. I separate limbs, then divide the torso along the spine, my blade finding the spaces between vertebrae. The ribcage comes away from the backbone with careful cuts that follow the natural anatomy.

I work without sentiment. This animal is no longer an animal—it's resources. Meat for calories. Hide for warmth. Bones for tools. Nature's efficiency demands respect, not emotional attachment.

When finished, I have transformed the carcass into portions organized by use and quality. The prime cuts I wrap carefully in large leaves secured with strips of inner bark. The tougher pieces require longer cooking but provide sustained energy. The organs must be consumed first. These calculations run automatically through my mind as I package each portion.

I wipe my blade clean on moss, then use snow to clean blood from my hands until the skin reddens from cold rather than kill. My eyes never stop scanning the tree line—motion, sound, anything out of place. Predators smell blood from kilometers away. I've been careful, but vigilance is survival.

The meat goes into my carrier, distribution of weight critical for the journey back. The hide I fold carefully, flesh sides together, and secure at the top of my pack. I gather the wrapped organs last, placing them where I can access them quickly if needed.

The winter festival needs this meat. I calculate the number of calories, the protein content, how many it will feed. The Druid will be pleased with my contribution, though he won't say so directly, of course.

I check the site once more before departing. No excessive blood trails to attract predators. No useful parts abandoned. The stone slab scraped clean of evidence. I retrieve my carrier with a smooth motion and adjust it across my shoulders, the familiar weight settling comfortably against my back.

Time to move. The settlement is 14.2 kilometers southeast. If I maintain optimal pace, I'll arrive before nightfall. I orient myself by the sun's position, noting its angle above the horizon—perhaps four hours of daylight remaining. Enough time.

I slide into the forest's embrace, moving with deliberate steps that leave minimal trace. The hunt is complete. Now comes delivery, then preparation, then consumption. The cycle continues, as it always has, as it always will.

---

My boots ghost across the snow as the sounds of merriment reach me on the frozen wind. The rasp of the Hurdy Gurdy, the melody of flutes, the rhythm of drums, and the chanting voices mix with the raucous sounds of men and women celebrating the festival of chill. Camp is now clearly visible, marked by a pillar of flame silhouetted against the horizon.

I shift the frame holding the disassembled deer carcass from last night and continue walking. Eventually, I enter the firelight, moving through the shadows cast by dancing men and women surrounding the central bonfire. The fire is tended by an old man with a long white beard and heavy staff. His gentle smile turns my way as he plays a stringed instrument—a Hurdy Gurdy, though I've seen nothing like it apart from this singular example in my twenty-one winters.

"Tribute for the pot," I state, lowering the meat—now frozen and wrapped in its thoroughly scraped hide—to the ground at the old man's feet. At his nod, a dozen youngbloods move forward to start rendering the flesh and hide into useful items.

"You are the last," the old man says while standing, his long fingers never pausing as he plays the Hurdy Gurdy. "I was going to send a search party if you had been gone more than another day, Grace." His smile deepens the lines around his face. "I am glad you're home, child."

I resist the urge to rip out the man's throat for that comment. I push down the desire to inform him that his help would do nothing for me, clamping my jaw shut to prevent the cold words from escaping—words explaining that if a search party were sent, I would be rescuing them rather than the reverse, as the forest is mine. I simply nod, and the old man smiles as if he knows my thoughts. He doesn't possess telepathy, but he probably knows me almost as well as I know myself, making mental powers unnecessary to read my reactions.

"You are learning," the old druid says with a smile. "Good."

"That obvious, old man?" I ask, curious despite myself. He's the only one I know who isn't unsettled by my presence.

"I've known you since you were a child," he replies simply. "If I didn't know how your mind works by now, I wouldn't be a very good druid, would I, little one?"

"I am going to assist the cooks in rendering the flesh and marrow," I say, turning away.

"You will not join in the festivities?" he asks. "Baldric should be around here somewhere. Would take a look for him, but he's a dwarf, so it's not like we could catch a glimpse of him in this mosh."

"They do not want me," I respond matter-of-factly. "All save you feel fear in my presence. I'll do what's required to continue our survival in the meantime."

"What of Baldric?" he asks. "He cares for you. A bit more than I would like, but you are not a child, and my desires mean little when it comes to matters outside the hunt and the kill, the rip and the tear."

"His runic magic is useful to learn," I acknowledge. "And he's a good man to speak with when I want another's opinion, despite being unsettled by my presence like the others."

"As you wish, child," the druid says, fingers never hesitating on his hurdy gurdy. "Though I would speak to him about it. I suspect he believes somewhat differently than you about your relationship." Under his breath, audible only due to my enhanced senses, he adds, "Lucky he's a fucking dwarf, or I'd accuse him of robbing the god-damn cradle with you, but he's not much older than you, least not among his kin."

"Dance, pretty woman?"

I turn, looking up, and up, and up until I see the thick red beard of a giant man. He stands at least eight and a half feet tall and four feet wide, all muscle, towering over me like a mountain given human form. I recognize him as an outsider immediately.

"No," I reply flatly. "I am not one you should speak with, outsider. Not unless you wish to discuss the hunt. And since I've tasted the flesh your kind hunts and found it lacking, I doubt you'd interest me in speaking of that."

"I am not of the Slayor Lords," the giant says, his bare chest muscles flexing as he shrugs. "Though yeah, our hunters aren't really as good as yours." He brings a massive hand down to pat the top of my head. "Foshdoor."

"Give me headpats again," I say with a cold smile that displays my sharp teeth, "and I will sup upon your throat meat, outsider."

"Right before," a gruff voice speaks behind us, accompanied by the heavy thunk of a crossbow being readied, "I shove this bolt so far up your cock that you shit metal, stumpy."

I turn to see Baldric—four and a half feet tall, one remaining eye glaring fiercely, heavy crossbow clutched in thickly calloused hands. His thick, snow-covered bushey beard twitching with his rage.

"Good thing I have no further reason to give the girl headpats, then," the giant foreigner says, now grinning. "Though I would be honored for your lot to sup upon my flesh otherwise."

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"As I still have to speak with you," the druid interjects, "I would rather you not die, frostborn."

"Remember, you will eventually die," the giant says with a laugh. "Now I'll talk, but I'll leave your kin alone for a bit so I don't cause one of them incidents."

The druid nods, and I turn away as Baldric stomps off, his prosthetic leg striking the snow with a heavy crunch as he grumbles about "fucking foreigners." I follow him on silent feet, my slight weight not breaking the snow's surface—a small application of vigger.

"You good?" Baldric asks gruffly. "Were out a long time."

"It was nice in the silence," I reply honestly. "the herd went farther than I expected."

"Always need to bring the biggest fucker for the pot," the short man says with a grin. "That be our Grace, aye?"

I nod once in reply before falling silent. No reason to speak further as the merriment winds down. This celebration runs from sundown to sunrise, though few have the stamina to dance through the entire night.

Eventually, I find myself perched high in a pine, activating featherstep to distribute my weight across the narrow branch. A single glass of honeyed mead rests in my gloved hand. Below me sits Baldric on a thicker branch, his stockier frame requiring the sturdier support despite also using featherstep. His dwarvish nature grants him significantly larger vigger reserves than mine, though his regeneration rate is slower—a fair exchange.

From my position, I observe without being observed—a tactical advantage that provides an unexpected form of comfort. Neither Baldric nor the frost giant have detected my presence, allowing me unfiltered access to their conversation.

"You care for her," the giant rumbles to Baldric, his massive frame making the dwarf appear even smaller. "Yes? More than just one of your kin? More than just as one who is kin of the man who saved your life when you were young? Who ensured that you only lost an eye and a lower leg?"

Something stirs within me at hearing myself discussed—not quite discomfort, not quite curiosity. An unfamiliar sensation I can't properly categorize. I take another measured sip of mead while analyzing Baldric's reaction.

"She is kind to me in her own way," Baldric replies, shifting his position. "And that is rare. The others value me, but I am not kin to them. They include me, but they know it, and I know it. I do not blame them, but kin nonetheless I am not." He pauses. "She, her presence is not what most would wish to remain around, and so outsiders both, we find our kin."

I process his assessment efficiently. His analysis is accurate—we occupy similar positions as outsiders. His physical differences create discomfort among the others. My nature does the same, though for different reasons. Perhaps this explains why I tolerate his presence. He accepts what I am without expecting something else.

"Why did you not then ask her to dance?" the giant asks, his manipulative intent transparent in his tone. "I hoped you would, not cause a scene, but would be stirred to action once you saw me dancing with her, though would still be impressed if you could fire one of them bolts up my cock. Actually firing it so it doesn't just rip it apart? That takes skill, and your kind, Dwarves, are not known for that type of skill. The forge and anvil, yes, but the bow? One not of the cutting splitting axe? Your kind are known for not."

I suppress a reaction, controlling my breathing to maintain stealth. The concept of dancing is tactically irrelevant—an inefficient social ritual with no survival value. At least Baldric understands this reality about me and doesn't waste effort pursuing impossible outcomes. His assessment of my boundaries demonstrates practical intelligence.

"What of you?" Baldric counters, effectively redirecting the conversation. "Why have you come from the lands of beasts? The lands of dragons and mammoths? Why have you braved the icebound sea to come to this shit hole? Home it may be, but shit hole it remains nonetheless, and your kin love your mead-halls too much to travel here without a quarry to hunt. Shit hunters of beasts you may be, but of men and monsters? Steel and silver? Those whom you can test your strength against? Hunters of them you have aplenty, and good ones too."

My attention sharpens. This question holds tactical value. Our settlement does not receive visitors without significant purpose, particularly those who cross the treacherous icebound sea. The giant's presence represents a potential variable in our survival equation—one that requires assessment.

I adjust my position slightly for better auditory reception, maintaining perfect balance while minimizing movement. Whatever information follows could prove critical for anticipating potential threats or opportunities.

"A brother's call is a brother's call," the giant responds, his deep voice suddenly weighted with genuine emotion. "And I answer when I hear it, as they answer when I call. Kin is kin if not by blood, and mother-bound is our kind bonded. Memories of the past, of happier times when my hands did not drip with blood, burrowing into the fertile earth, the Vidkies runeskjalds telling me of the ending time. The god's death, and final winter. The time hence spring shall not come."

My fingers tighten around my mead glass. An ending? A final winter? The words send an unfamiliar chill through me that has nothing to do with the cold. So this is why the druid has been gathering strangers—the necromancer, the frost king, others I've seen at the edges of our camp. Something is coming.

"If I can assist in its prevention?" the giant continues. "I would far more than brave the icy depths, brother of the flame and the hammer, brother of the axe and the skjald around the hearth. I and mine would do much for that. Gunner and the others of my kin who came with me."

"Doesn't seem so bad," Baldric says with a shrug. "From one man to another? Struggle now, and at least you know what you're struggling for? To prevent the ending? When the forges go out and the holds grow cold, when the hammers' ring calls not? Time has a way of sanding our purpose clear, and you and yours have it now. I though?" He scoffs, a short snort through his nose that I hear clearly even from my position.

The giant's focus shifts, and I go completely still. "The girl. She values you?" He's speaking of me now. "You value her for treating you as kin, but her? She is not of this earth, and she knows that, deep. Why does she see you as clan and kin? Why does she see you as blood? As unkindled flame to her chill that bites? You and brother mine are all she tolerates, and I would know why, if only to sing this better to my kin around our hearth when I return to the land of frost and stone."

I nearly drop my glass. Not of this earth? What does he mean? The words hit me like an arrow to the chest, stirring something buried deep in memory—something I cannot quite grasp. How would this stranger know something about me that I do not?

"She values me for my runic magic," Baldric replies, and I'm grateful for his simple honesty. He doesn't try to fabricate some deeper bond that doesn't exist. "Though for what else, I know not, and nor do I care. Being called as kin after so long is enough for this old warrior. It eases the ache in my bones and stirs the embers in my soul."

I've never considered that Baldric might need that acceptance as much as I need his knowledge. Perhaps our arrangement isn't as purely practical as I'd thought.

"Aye," the giant rumbles softly. "True enough, that, to be called kin. True kin, from one who knows your sorrow and pain, though the path of rage you and she walk not? I... I shan't push further on that, then." Baldric grunts, half laugh and half snort, which I recognize as his way of agreeing without words.

A new voice draws my attention away from their conversation. At the edge of the trees stands a tall, gaunt man, his sunken eyes fixed on the druid.

"May I sit by your fire, killer of my daughter?" the stranger asks. His voice carries the hollow quality I associate with death magic.

"Do not harm my people," the druid replies, having stowed his hurdy gurdy, "and you may, Kairn. Enemy you see me, but I see you as kin, and any kin of mine is welcome at my hearth."

I shift my position slightly, obtaining a better vantage point. The gaunt man—Kairn—nods before entering the circle of firelight.

"This man!" He declares, pointing at the druid. "Killed my kin. As such, I demand a blood price be paid—a guild of flesh and life. Flesh for flesh. Blood for blood. Soul for soul for soul. When I stand, we shall fight, and at that time, I will give my child the rest she desires, and then I shall leave without rancor for you and your kin, though you may call me monster and worse, kin of Gaia's chosen."

"Accepted," the old man responds, drawing two long bone knives from his robes. Interesting—they appear similar to mine, though I've never seen him use them before. "Although I shall not have you harm my men, regardless of the outcome."

"I have no truck with yours, druid," Kairn states as death mana flares around him before fading. "But if I must swear to not harm yours after I cut you down? I shall do so, and do so gladly. I assume the ragewalker? He of the frenzied flame?"

"Agreed," the druid speaks. Around the clearing, nearly all the rangers—myself excluded—raise their bows to point at the revealed necromancer. "None interfere who stand within this gathering. This sin is mine, and its resolution is mine to bear, and mine alone."

The rangers lower their weapons reluctantly, though I notice they keep arrows nocked. The strings are no longer drawn, but that poses little challenge for a trained archer of our blood.

"Terms for you, Necromancer?" the old man asks, practical even now.

"Only that none of your kin attack me when I cut you down, and do not harm me until one hour after I have left this clearing," Kairn intones. "Apart from that? I shall not ask for meat and salt, as I am planning to cut down my host, and I do not flaunt the laws of men lightly. Though life and death are bendable, the laws of men and gods are not so fleeting."

"Agreed," the druid says. "I wish you only to rest. Rest with your daughter somewhere far from this blighted world. A beach perhaps? Rest and raise her into the woman she deserved to become."

With those words, the druid moves with unexpected speed, bone knives flashing in his weathered hands. The firelight catches their ivory surfaces, revealing subtle carvings I've never noticed before. Each knife moves independently—the right sweeping low toward Kairn's abdomen while the left slashes toward his throat. The necromancer's reflexes are impressive. He steps back with fluid grace, drawing twin sickles from beneath his ragged cloak in a single motion. The curved metal catches the firelight with an unnatural gleam, too bright for simple steel.

The druid presses forward despite his initial miss, bone knives weaving a complex pattern. His movements belie his apparent age—each step precise, each twist of his body economical. Left blade feints high while right blade follows through, forcing Kairn to block awkwardly with his off-hand sickle. The necromancer deflects the blow, metal scraping against bone with a sound that sets my teeth on edge.

Kairn counters with a fluid sequence of his own. His right sickle sweeps downward in a vicious arc while his left thrusts straight ahead, forcing the druid to defend on two fronts simultaneously. The old man blocks the thrust with his right knife while sidestepping the sweeping attack, but his movements aren't as quick as they once were. The tip of Kairn's blade catches his sleeve, tearing the fabric but missing flesh.

The combatants separate momentarily, circling each other around the edge of the fire pit. Shadows dance across their faces, distorting their expressions into grotesque masks. The druid's eyes never leave his opponent, his breathing controlled despite the exertion. Kairn moves with the unnatural grace I've witnessed in other death magic practitioners—as if partially disconnected from physical limitations.

They clash again, blades meeting in a flurry too fast to fully track. The druid spins inside Kairn's guard, bone knives seeking vulnerable points. One blade scores a shallow cut along the necromancer's forearm, drawing first blood. Dark liquid spatters against the snow, steaming slightly in the cold air. Kairn hisses but doesn't retreat, instead pressing forward with renewed intensity.

The druid continues his spinning motion, using momentum to power his next attack. But Kairn anticipates the move, shifting his weight to counter. Their weapons lock briefly, faces inches apart as each strains against the other's strength. The druid breaks the deadlock with a sudden backward step, causing Kairn to stumble forward before regaining his balance.

From my perch, I can see what others cannot—the druid is tiring while Kairn seems to draw energy from the confrontation itself. Each exchange leaves the old man fractionally slower, his movements infinitesimally less precise. The necromancer senses this too, his attacks becoming more aggressive, more confident.

The decisive moment comes after a particularly intense exchange. The druid blocks three consecutive strikes but fails to counter effectively. His breathing has become more labored, his movements less fluid. Kairn feints with his right sickle, drawing the druid's attention before sweeping his leg with a low kick. The old man loses his balance, falling backward.

With horrifying speed, Kairn pounces. The druid manages to deflect one sickle with his left knife, but his right arm is pinned. The necromancer raises his free blade, angling it precisely toward the druid's exposed eye. The curved metal gleams with malevolent purpose, poised to deliver the killing blow.

Something inside me fractures. A lifetime of suppressed emotion suddenly crashes through carefully constructed barriers. The druid—my teacher, my mentor, the only one who ever saw me as more than a weapon—is about to die. The realization strikes with physical force, propelling me into action before conscious thought can intervene.

My bow is in my hands, an arrow nocked, drawn, and released in less than a heartbeat. The motion is so ingrained I don't need to think about it. The arrow flies with perfect accuracy toward Kairn's skull—a shot I've made a thousand times before. It never misses. It never has.

In the microsecond before impact, Kairn senses the attack. His head starts to turn, eyes widening. With inhuman reflexes, he yanks the druid upward, using him as a shield. My arrow—my perfect, unerring arrow—strikes with a sickening thud.

The bone tip pierces the druid's skull just above his left temple. His body goes rigid, then slack. For a brief, eternal moment, his eyes find mine across the distance. There's no accusation in them, no anger—only a strange, terrible understanding, as if this moment had been anticipated, perhaps even planned.

Then light erupts from the wound—not blood, but pure, blinding radiance. It flows outward from the entry point, crawling across his skin like liquid lightning. The light intensifies, pulsing with impossible brightness, consuming the druid's form completely. Kairn stumbles backward, shielding his eyes, his victory forgotten.

The radiance expands exponentially, swallowing the fire pit, then the clearing, then everything. It's unlike anything I've ever encountered—not fire, not electricity, not any natural force. It feels ancient and purposeful, a manifestation of power beyond simple categorization. The light has weight, presence, intention.

As it reaches me, I feel my connection to the branch beneath me dissolve. My body becomes insubstantial, dissolving into the all-consuming brilliance. I'm falling, but there's no ground below, no sky above, only endless radiance stretching in all directions. My senses fail me one by one—first touch, then smell, then hearing, until only sight remains, and even that is overwhelmed by unending whiteness.

As consciousness begins to slip away, I don't calculate survival probabilities or plan tactical responses as I've been trained to do. Instead, my mind fills with a single, unfamiliar emotion: regret. Pure and devastating. Not for my own fate—that has never concerned me—but for the druid. For the father I've just killed with my own perfect skill. It's the last coherent thought I have before the whiteness takes everything, and I cease to be.