Chapter 3: The Hunter’s House

The eastern edge of Veyndale smelled of pine sap, smoke, and old sorrow.

Aelric's boots crunched over the frozen path as he passed the last row of slumped wooden homes. The snow drifted higher here, untouched, and the village faded into thin lines of grey smoke behind him.

Ahead, alone at the tree line, stood the hunter's house.

It wasn't much. A squat timber cabin, roof sagging under the snow's weight, animal pelts stretched on racks by the wall. An old iron lantern hung by the door, its glass cracked. Smoke drifted from the crooked chimney, curling into the pale winter sky.

But it was alive.

Aelric rapped his knuckles against the door, measured, not forceful. He didn't need to intimidate these people. They were already broken enough.

After a moment, the door creaked open.

A man peered out — lean, broad-shouldered, rough around the edges. His face was weathered by years under sun and wind, streaks of grey in his dark beard. But it was his eyes that struck Aelric — sharp, green, and bloodshot from sleepless nights.

Not fear. Grief. Exhaustion. And beneath it… stubborn fire.

"You're not one of mine," the man said, voice rough as bark.

"I heard about Lyra."

Aelric kept his voice steady — not soft, not cold. Practical. Professional. The way mercenaries and hunters spoke in places like this. It earned trust faster than honeyed words.

The man's jaw tightened. He stepped aside. "Come in."

The cabin's interior was sparse but functional — pelts lining the walls, hunting bows above the hearth, a battered table stacked with traps and tools. A faint scent of herbs hung in the air.

Near the hearth, a woman sat in a worn chair, darning an old cloak. Her hands moved mechanically, but her face…

Her eyes were empty. Red-rimmed, staring past the stitches, past the room.

Aelric recognized that look. He'd seen it in war camps. Among refugees.

It was what happened when hope bled dry.

"Erin," the hunter called gently.

The woman flinched, blinking, as if surfacing from deep water. Her gaze settled on Aelric, wary and dull.

"This man's asking about Lyra."

Her expression twisted — grief tightening around sharp features, but no tears came. Perhaps she'd already wept them dry.

Aelric inclined his head respectfully. "I'm not from Veyndale. But I intend to search the Frost Hollow. I need to know everything."

The hunter studied him carefully. "You one of the lord's men?"

Aelric snorted quietly. "I wouldn't waste breath on your doorstep if I was."

A flicker of reluctant approval crossed the hunter's face.

"Name's Bran," the man offered finally. "My wife, Erin."

Aelric didn't give his surname. That old name meant nothing now. "Aelric."

Bran nodded, tension loosening fractionally. He gestured to the table. "Sit. If you're really going after her, you deserve the truth."

Aelric settled onto the bench, ignoring the protest in his weak limbs. His eyes swept the cabin — a hunter's tools, yes, but tucked among them… something older.

Carved stones on the windowsill. Worn, circular talismans etched with symbols. Subtle, faint… but familiar.

Old wards. Forest charms. The kind used by those who still remembered that not all the creatures beyond human lands bowed to gods or kings.

Superstition? Perhaps. But out here, on the border…

It was survival.

Bran followed his gaze, noticing the flicker of recognition. "You know the old signs."

"Enough to respect them."

Bran's eyes sharpened, but he said nothing for a moment. Finally, he exhaled, heavy.

"Lyra went out three days ago. Supposed to be a short hunt — snowhares, maybe small game. She knows the woods better than most. Has since she could walk." His voice cracked faintly. "But she didn't come back."

"Anyone go after her?"

Bran's jaw tightened. "I tried. So did two others. But the Hollow… it's wrong now. Paths that twist, trees that breathe… shadows that move without light."

Aelric's mind ticked. The System had hinted at it — anomalies, growth potential — but hearing it confirmed sent a cold thrill through him.

"And beasts?"

Bran hesitated. "Not wolves. Not normal ones, anyway. Too big. Eyes like lamps in the dark. And… other things."

Erin finally spoke, voice thin, brittle. "The whispering."

Bran's hand closed over hers gently.

Aelric tilted his head. "Whispering?"

Erin's eyes met his, raw and wary. "When the snow falls heavy… you can hear it. Voices. Calling. Too sweet to be real."

Aelric leaned back, frowning faintly. Magic? Illusion? Or…

He scanned the talismans again. Wards against spirits, not beasts. They feared more than wolves.

The System pulsed softly in his mind.

[Environmental Hazard Classification: Moderate. Cognitive Manipulation Potential: High. System Integration Growth Probability: 28%.]

So — it was real. Not folklore. And worth the risk.

Aelric rose smoothly. "I'll look for her."

Bran's expression darkened with doubt, but Erin — for the first time — showed a flicker of desperate hope.

"Why?" Bran asked, blunt. "Coin? No one's paid the bounty in weeks."

Aelric met his gaze evenly. "I'm… building a reputation. And I've survived worse."

A half-truth. But enough.

Bran's eyes lingered on him for a moment, then he reached into a drawer, producing a small, carved token — wood, shaped like a phoenix feather, etched with the same old symbols.

"She wears one of these," Bran explained, handing it over. "If you find her… or…" His jaw clenched. "Bring it back."

Aelric pocketed the token, his fingers brushing the worn carvings. It hummed faintly — a trace of magic. Old, forest-born.

Not divine. Not human-made.

Another piece of the puzzle.

Aelric turned to go, but Erin's voice stopped him.

"Please," she whispered, eyes shining with buried hope. "Bring my girl home."

Aelric paused, the weight of her words lingering like frost on his skin.

"I'll try," he promised softly.

Then he stepped into the snow, toward the waiting trees.

Toward the Frost Hollow.

And whatever awaited him there.

...

The eastern trail out of Veyndale was little more than a game path carved between snow-laden pines. Pale morning light filtered through the branches as Aelric approached the meeting point.

Rhea was already there, crouched by a fallen log, inspecting the ground. Her sharp eyes flicked up as he approached.

"You took your time."

Aelric shrugged, adjusting the leather pack he'd borrowed from Bran. It wasn't much — a coil of rope, a waterskin, a few smoked strips of venison — but it was more than he'd had yesterday.

"Got what I needed."

Rhea stood, brushing snow from her gloves. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes lingered briefly on the token hanging from Aelric's neck — the phoenix-feather charm Bran had given him.

"You talked to her family." Not a question.

"I did."

A moment of quiet passed. The snow whispered against the trees. Somewhere distant, a raven croaked.

"Still planning to walk into the Hollow?" she asked, one brow raised.

Aelric's lips curled faintly. "You said you'd guide me."

Rhea snorted. "I guide fools to the edge. If they keep walking, that's their business."

But she turned, leading him down the path without further protest.

The woods grew thicker as they walked. The trees here were old — gnarled, their trunks twisted with age, bark split with veins of pale moss. Animal tracks marked the snow: hares, foxes… and others.

Aelric's sharp eyes caught them — broad, heavy pawprints too large for wolves, the claws etched deep into the snow.

"Locals still calling these wolves?" he asked quietly.

Rhea's jaw tightened. "It's easier that way."

"Easier than what?"

She didn't answer. But the unease in her posture said enough.

They pressed on, the forest swallowing them. The wind carried faint whispers — not voices, not yet… but sounds that felt misplaced. The crunch of snow where no one walked. The faint rustle of branches absent of birds.

It set Aelric's nerves alight. But it wasn't fear. It was calculation. Opportunity.

The System flickered softly in his mind.

[Environmental Anomaly: Mana Distortion Present.][System Integration Probability: Moderate.]

Good. Growth.

As they crested a shallow ridge, Rhea paused. Below, nestled in the snow-dusted pines, stood a crumbling stone shrine — old, half-buried, its carvings worn smooth by time.

Aelric frowned faintly. "A shrine? Out here?"

Rhea's voice lowered. "Not to the gods."

Aelric's eyes narrowed as he approached. The weathered stone bore faint etchings — not the sharp, righteous iconography of the Central Pantheon… but flowing lines, interwoven scales… and the faint outline of wings.

A dragon. Ancient. Stylized.

"Oldblood markings," Aelric muttered.

Rhea glanced at him, surprised. "You recognize them."

"Enough."

Oldblood. It was a term whispered in border towns and frontier outposts. The surviving traces of the elder races — Dragons, Phoenix Clans, the Moonborn Wolves, and the Nightbound — faded empires that had ruled before humanity's gods had carved their temples into the earth.

Here, in these forgotten woods… their shadows lingered.

"You think this connects to the Hollow?" Aelric asked, running his fingers over the stone. The carvings hummed faintly under his touch — not magic, not active… but old. Watching.

Rhea hesitated. "Folk say the Hollow… belongs to something older than wolves and whispers."

"And no one's torn this down?"

"Would you?" Her eyes held a quiet warning. "The last man who tried… his house burned. No fire marks. No smoke. Just ashes."

Aelric filed that away. Not divine retribution — something more primal. More territorial.

The System pulsed softly again.

[Hidden Faction Detected: Oldblood Remnants - Influence: Minor. Standing: Neutral.][System Note: Contact with faction relics may alter future growth paths.]

Interesting. Very interesting.

Aelric turned from the shrine, his mind ticking. This wasn't just a missing girl. The Frost Hollow wasn't just a cursed patch of forest.

It was a place where old powers stirred. A place where his System — fractured and incomplete as it was — could grow.

And growth… meant control.

Rhea's voice broke the quiet. "You sure about this?"

Aelric met her gaze. Cool. Steady. The way a man spoke when fear had been burned out and replaced with hunger.

"I've never been more sure."

Ahead, the trees thickened, their shadows stretching like claws over the snow. Beyond them, the Frost Hollow waited.

And within it — danger, whispers, and the first true step…

…toward power.