the Hunter's Proverb: Trails of Blood and Snow

All human beings face problems.

Some easy

Some hard.

That’s what father taught me.

He used to say that the snow keeps its own ledger—it remembers every lie, every kill, every choice. 

Just as a good hunter chooses which trail to follow, 

so too does a good chief.

Becoming chief was all about choices, he said. 

And when faced with more than one choice, you must choose one you can live with when morning comes.

After ten days on the trail, I was faced with a choice of my own. 

A dilemma. 

On one side lay a dying friend,

On the other —a miracle that promised to quiet my grief.

The very reason I had followed the trail at all.

But I froze.

Staring at Kol—broken, barely breathing —the only person who had stood between me and death more times than I deserved. The choice should have been easy.

Yet the frost shimmered

My father’s shape grew clearer —shoulders broad, familiar, the way he used to stand when he watched the village wake. I could almost hear him clear his throat. Almost hear him say my name the way he used to, careful not to soften it too much.

One step.

That was all it would take.

I lifted my foot —and felt something press beneath it.

I knelt and picked it up.

My knife.

The small one. The same one that had once belonged to my father. Frost clung to its edge, mixed with darkened blood from where I had driven it into the frost-lurker.

I looked up.

My father stood before me.

Weathered. Tired. Smiling with the kind of love he never spoke aloud.

I missed him with an ache so deep it nearly split me open.

The choice you can live with, he used to say.

Every part of me wanted to break. I think I already knew the answer—but it wasn’t until I met his eyes that I truly understood.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

You know what to do, son.

And damn it—

I did.

The silence stretched as I took in his face one last time.

Then I said the name of my choice.

“Kol.”

The snow beneath my father hardened instantly. The scent of tobacco and leather vanished as he was swallowed back into the frost from which he came.

Amarok’s gaze lingered on me

The glowing paw prints snow began to fade until only ordinary winter remained. The trees slowly lifted themselves upright, branches settling, roots easing back into place.

Kol’s chest suddenly heaved.

“I’m here,” I whispered, unsure who I was speaking to. Kol. The land. Myself.

Kol’s pack was heavier than it should have been. 

My fingers shook as I tore it open, the leather straps slick with the frost of the trail. The first thing I smelled was fat and pine. I thought it was food.

It wasn't.

There were two bundles wrapped in oilcloth. 

The first held strips of dried sinew, stripped clean from the spine of a buck and a harrow-needle carved from a predator's splintered shinbone. The second was a map with a charcoal symbol mark.

I knew what they were.

My father once told me how he stitched his own leg after a moose hunt gone wrong. 

Unfortunately, I was not him.

“You’re going to have to wait a minute before we get you home,” I muttered.

Kol didn’t respond, but his brows loosened, as if even unconscious, he understood the choice I had made.

I sheathed my knife and lifted him onto my shoulders.

We fell. Yeah, my shoulders just gave up.

Instead, I grabbed him under the arms and pulled.

The snow resisted like a living thing. My boots sank past the ankle; Kol’s weight felt like dragging a stone through frozen riverbed. Oh, why…. did he have…to be this…h-eavy? My arm throbbed with each pull, warm blood freezing against my sleeve. The cold gnawed deeper into me than the frost-lurker ever had.

I stopped twice.

Once to breathe.

Once to look back.

The Amarok's trail was gone.

I turned away.

And as I dragged Kol into the darkness between the trees, toward the mark on the map, I could have sworn the forest exhaled—
softly, like disappointment.

The snow deepened and the sun was fully high. Each pull strained something inside my shoulder. The muscles burned, then numbed, then burned again. The sky above us had begun its darkening trick—a slow bruising that meant only one thing.

Another storm.

“You would pick now,” I muttered bitterly at the sky. It did not care.

Kol’s boots scraped uselessly behind me. His breath rasped in shallow bursts. His head lolled once, twice.

The wind picked up, howling like the pain in my arms. We needed shelter. I was not keen to repeat what happened during the last storm considering the one who could save me can barely move.

And suddenly, through the curtain of drifting white, I recognised the shape of the land—the uneven dip, the sloping curve of the ridge—

The same ravine from the storm before.

The air groaned as the blizzard swelled, the first heavy flakes stinging my face. I dug my heels in, dragging Kol sideways toward the fissure. The storm hit like a swinging fist, forcing my eyes shut. My teeth rattled.

“Just....stay awake,” I gasped, though he wasn’t listening.

The ravine’s shadowy mouth opened before us. I half-slid, half-fell down the incline, pulling Kol with me, cursing every root, stone, and gods that ever existed.

I used my body to shield Kol from the fall. My back didn’t appreciate it.

Kol coughed, a small ugly sound. His eyes fluttered open and closed again.

“Yeah, I know,” I muttered, brushing snow from his face with trembling fingers. “You’re welcome.”

I lowered him gently, checking the wound again. The bleeding hadn’t stopped. The wound around the torn fabric was tinged pink. 

From our past experience, I knew getting him here was not enough.

He needed fire.

I forced myself upright. “Stay put,” I whispered, as if he had any choice.

The storm was full now—wind whipping loose snow into spiralling mist. I climbed out of the ravine mouth and returned with an armful of wood that felt too light for what I needed and they were frozen. 

After what felt like a decade, I got the wood dry but another problem arose. Starting a fire.

It should’ve been easy. Something about smashing two stones at an angle.

But everything was stiff. Wet. I couldn’t feel my fingers. And every spark died the moment it lived.

“Come on,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Come on—come on—”

The flint slipped. The tinder smoked but refused to catch. I slammed my fist against the rock.

Of course I can’t even do this.

I was finally ready to learn but there was no one to teach. I scratched my head for any piece of information I knew about flames.

Dry the tinder in your hands first. Shield the spark with your body and feed it breath, slowly.

Don’t know whose words those were but they seemed to do the trick.

A weak flame danced to life. I nearly sobbed.

I fed it carefully until heat spread through the ravine, shadows flickering against the curved icy walls. The fire wasn’t strong but it was enough to keep us from freezing.

Kol shivered violently.

I hurried to him, touching his forehead. Cold—too cold. His clothes were soaked in blood and snow. He’d freeze before sunrise.

Without thinking, I stripped off my coat and draped it over him.

“Ah, that half-vest of yours won’t cut it,” I muttered, tucking the fur around his shoulders. “Remind me to yell at you later about getting better clothes… Kol?”

His eyes opened a sliver. The brown in them seemed dulled, distant. His lips moved.

I drew my knife and held it in the fire until the metal darkened, then glowed faintly red at the edge,

“Irry…thik…”

His throat worked as if he wanted to say more, but only a hiss of air came out.

“Yeah….I’m sorry,” I whispered. “But I don’t know how to stitch. So….this will hurt.”

His breathing hitched as I pressed my palm against his chest to steady him.

“Don’t move,” I said, voice breaking. “Please.”

I lifted the blade from the fire.

The cold rushed in immediately, trying to steal the heat from it. I didn’t give it the chance.

I pressed the knife against the wound.

Kol screamed.

It tore out of him raw and sharp, echoing against the ravine walls. His body arched violently. I nearly dropped the blade.

“I know—I know,” I sobbed, forcing myself to hold it there, just long enough. The smell hit me next—burnt flesh and iron and blood. I gagged, eyes burning, but I didn’t stop.

When I finally pulled the blade away, Kol collapsed back.

Then, impossibly, one corner of his mouth twitched.

“…next time,” he rasped, voice wrecked, “just… ask me… before you decide… to cook me.”