A faint rustle breaks the stillness.

There—standing alone between the firs—is a small girl in a red wool cloak, hood pulled low, breath trembling in the cold.

A whisper of steel as Gord draws her sword, eyes narrowing.

The girl flinches.

"P-please… I’m lost…"

Rothütle throws Gord a quick, uneasy glance, then steps forward slowly, palms open.

"It’s alright," he says softly. "You’re safe. What happened?"

The girl wipes her eyes.

"I was bringing food to my grandmother. But I strayed from the trail… and something started following me."

Behind him, Gord moves in widening circles, boots silent on the frost. Her grip on the sword never loosens.

"What kind of something?" she asks without looking at the child—eyes fixed on the shifting treeline.

"I don’t know," t…

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