On the Trail

The Amarok was born from the first winter breath of the world.

When the lands were young and the sky still carried the warmth of creation, the snows came suddenly—soft, silent, and endless. From that silence rose a single howl, stretching from horizon to horizon, and the tribes trembled, for no wolf could make such a sound. It was long, mournful, and old beyond measure.

They say the Amarok brought forth the world’s newborn frost.

A wolf larger than any elk, its fur a storm of white, silver, and void-black swirls, like ink suspended in moonlight.
Its eyes glow blue where fire should burn, and from its paws spill drifting runes—ancient letters that melt into the snow.

The Amarok walked across the newborn snows, leaving behind trails of frost so deep and so cold that no fire could melt them. This became known as the Trail of the Amarok. Wherever it passed, trees bowed beneath, rivers rippled and the skies howled.

The old shamans teach that the Amarok is not a beast but a guardian spirit, the one who keeps balance between hunters and the hunted. If a heart grows evil, Amarok devours it.

The never-ending frost it brought was a gift, so they said.

And then there is the most popular tale—whispered more than spoken—that
He who slays the Amarok may claim its final breath and demand a single wish. 

A wish powerful enough to rewrite fate, return the world to how it was.

But the shamans always add the part that the warriors like to forget:

No mortal who hunts Amarok ever returns unchanged.
Some return with frost-madness.
Some…...
...Most, Not at all.

I am on the Amarok trail.

But not for the world.

Snow fell like sifted sand, weightless, endless, blurring the earth and sky into the same white void.

I pressed forward anyway.

My breath escaped in bursts of white steam, pulled instantly into the wind. The cold louder than my own breath.

It chewed at the leather on my palms, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts and it crept up against my hood like a whetstone dragging across a blade. The spruce branches sagged under night-snow, and the moon hung low, round, swollen, watching me like it knows what I’m about to do. Like it knows what a mistake this is.

I turned sixteen a few weeks ago and was eligible for the big ritual. Uncle Torran was the first to meet me at dawn before i left. He gave me a map and a small bone knife that suppossedly belonged to my father.

Three days have passed since then. The wind shifted, blurring past me. It was silent I could hear the soft crunch of my boots.

The moon dipped behind a slow-moving cloud, turning the world from silver to slate. And then I saw it.

Not Amarok itself—if I saw that, I think even my cold bones would try to run—but the sign every hunter fears and dreams of.

A pawprint in the snow.

No—not a pawprint.
A crater.
A perfect depression nearly as wide as my chest, its edges ringed with black powder. The snow around it had melted into slush even though snowflakes were still falling.

I crouched beside it.

It was warm to the touch.

A sharp crack echoed through the trees behind me. I froze. My hand flew to the handle of my bone-handled knife—not a weapon fit for a spirit wolf, but it makes me feel less like prey.

Drip….drip….crunch.

Snow fell from a branch.

Then another.

Then another.

Something was moving.

Stalking….me.

I pulled my hood tighter. The fur lining brushing against my cheek—white-grey wolf fur, it felt strange on me. Heavier and bulkier, not surprising since it belonged to my father, The Great Irrykaen—chief of the Var’Skeld Tribe—He would make use of the bony knife I had, not me. I wish he were here; maybe then my heart wouldn’t beat like it was trying to leap out of my chest.

I took one careful step backward. My boot slipped slightly on a patch of ice, betraying my footing. Down I went, tasting the snow with the side of my face. Today of all days.

Footsteps.

They fell in front of me and the light of the moon shone their shadow toward my face. It was a man, based on his build. Huge muscles. With those bulky arms he unsheathed his blade with a shling.

I tried to find my own but it had escaped me during my fall.

This was it.

My demise.

Fast approaching, so fast my mind raced in blurs. Such a waste. After merely sixteen years, I had barely lived, barely felt the touch of a woman other than my mother - and not in that way- but still I was young.

My mother, the wife of the great chief, was beautiful indeed. Her blonde hair, a trait I inherited was said to be long and pleasing. I have the slightest idea how a hair could be pleasing but that is how father described it. Thinking of it, Uncle Torran described it the same way. I didn't remember much of her since she passed when I was young.

My beautiful parents, the reason I was here, the reason I unwisely sought out Amarok.

And the reason I was now at the mercy of my stalker.

Such a short life.

“Oi,” the stalker said stepping forward. “Irrythik, you weakling. Get up!”

Uncle? No, I know that voice.

It was him.

Kol’s boots stopped inches from my face.

He sheathed his blade with a casual shk—click, as if he hadn’t just evaporated my heart. Moonlight caught on the bone plating of his gauntlet, lighting the edges in pale silver.

“You look pathetic,” he said.

Kol Skadi.

If I could describe using words, it would be a brute.

I pushed myself upright, snow clinging to my hood and lashes.

Kol laughed then glared at me with that look….the look he had always given. It took me a while to understand what it was. That look. Not exactly disdain but indifference, as if I were a fly buzzing around his ear and all he wanted to do was swat me.

And he did, many times because he was older, it was acceptable.

He extended a hand to me.

A helping hand.

I stared at it like might bite. “What are you doing out here?”

“Saving your life, apparently.” He wiggled his fingers impatiently. “Take the hand, Irrythik. Before you freeze into a decorative stump.”

I hesitated, then took it. His grip was firm—too firm, as if he were testing how easily my wrist might snap.

He hauled me up effortlessly. My boots slid, but he steadied me, dusting snow from my cloak like an overprotective older brother.

Kol had never dusted snow off me in his life.

“The chief is worried,” Kol said. “He sent me to accompany you.”

Chief.

That word stung.

After the death of my father, dear old Uncle was named interim chief until a time when I came of age. The ritual I was suppossed to be on was part of that but I had important plans.

“How did you even find me?” I asked.

Kol shrugged. “You leave obvious tracks. Even with all this snow.”

Dammit. I was so preoccupied with finding Amarok, I forgot to cover my tracks. I had never been considered good at anything the tribe found useful, not hunting, not skinning helpless animals. Not even lighting a fire using wood. And in terms of fighting, forget it, my greatest victory had been three years ago. Against a ten year old. Well, that ‘fight’ was stopped prematurely by father so victory might be pushing it.

Kol stepped closer, smiling, his hand on my shoulder.

I stiffened.

He noticed the tension but didn’t let his smile falter. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Especially....if you're chasing that,” He gestured to the massive pawprint. “ Besides, I've missed our hunts together. Who knows what could happen if you wander off …… I just want what’s best for you.”

We had been on exactly one hunt together in our entire lives, and he had spent the entire time calling me a “twig with legs.”

The wind cut between us like a blade.

Father used to say you can tell when someone lies by watching their eyes —not if they shift, but when they don’t shift. When they stay perfectly still, like the truth would burn them.

Kol’s eyes now… were torches of stillness.

Waiting….for me to say something. Anything. But why would he ‘want what’s best for me’.

Since when.

What does he want from me?