Rowan rode through the frozen wilds, his furs heavy with the stink of sweat and old blood. A month in the deep woods left a man leaner, harder, hungrier. The cold bit at his cheeks as he guided his mount through the snowy fields.


    Then he saw it - a shadow moving through the white, sleek and black as polished stone. An onyx-deer, rare as any beast in these parts. Rowan slid from his saddle, dagger in hand, breath slow, measured. One shot.


    The arrow struck true, burying deep in the creatures heart, just beneath it''s front leg. It stumbled, coughed steam into the cold, then fell. A fine kill. But Rowan didn''t have a bow to shoot it. It wasn''t him that killed this creature, though he feared not for he knew.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    By the time he''d cleaned the carcass and slung it over his horse, the wind carried another sound - hooves, light, quick. His sister. She rode up wrapped in thick wool, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold and the adrenaline, a fine bow slung over her shoulder.


    "You''re late," she said, her tone edged with worry.


    "You''re early," Rowan answered, swinging into the saddle.


    Together, they turned their mounts toward Frostholm, where warm fires and waiting kin greeted them.