The wind howled through the trees as our party rode into the southern woods, the towering pines standing like silent sentinels in the encroaching dusk. Snowflakes danced in the air, their delicate beauty a sharp contrast to the unease tightening in my chest. Beside me, Captain Lorn sat astride his black steed, his grizzled face set in grim determination. Behind us followed six of Winterfell's best trackers, their eyes scanning the forest for any signs of danger.
The journey from the keep had been uneventful, but the quiet only heightened my nerves. These woods were a place of whispers and shadows, their history steeped in superstition. Stories of beasts and spirits had long been told by the villagers who lived on the forest's edge, but I had always dismissed them as tales to keep children in line. Now, I wasn't so sure.
"Your Grace," Lorn said, breaking the silence. His voice was low, wary. "We're nearing the farmstead. Stay close to me."
I nodded, pulling my cloak tighter around me. The cold seeped through my gloves, biting at my fingers, but I refused to show any sign of discomfort. A leader—especially one so young—could not afford to appear weak.
The farmstead came into view moments later, its once-proud barn now a smoldering ruin. Blackened beams jutted into the air like skeletal fingers, and the acrid scent of charred wood lingered even in the biting cold. The house itself fared no better; its roof had collapsed, and deep gashes marred the stone walls.
"Spread out," Lorn ordered, dismounting with practiced ease. "Search for tracks or any signs of what did this."
The trackers moved swiftly, their movements silent as shadows. I dismounted as well, my boots crunching against the frozen ground. The destruction was worse up close. Blood stained the snow in dark patches, a grim testament to the violence that had occurred here. My stomach churned, but I forced myself to remain composed.
"Over here!" one of the trackers called, his voice sharp with urgency.
Lorn and I hurried to his side. He stood near the edge of the forest, crouched over a set of deep gouges in the ground.
"Claw marks," he said, gesturing to the parallel lines carved into the frozen earth. "Whatever made these was massive."
Lorn's face darkened as he examined the marks. "Too large for a bear," he muttered. "And the spacing… this was no ordinary beast."
I knelt beside him, running a gloved hand over the grooves. The edges were clean, as if the claws had been razor-sharp. My thoughts turned to the Rifts, to the horrors that had once poured from their depths. Was it possible they had returned?
"Tracks lead deeper into the forest," another tracker reported, pointing to a trail of broken branches and disturbed snow.
Lorn stood, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Your Grace, we should return to the keep and send for reinforcements. If this is what we fear it is…"
"No," I said firmly, rising to my feet. "If we wait, we risk losing the trail. Whatever did this must be stopped before it can strike again."
Lorn hesitated, his loyalty warring with his concern. Finally, he nodded. "As you command, Your Grace."
We pressed on, the forest growing darker with each passing moment. The trees seemed to close in around us, their branches forming a canopy that blocked out what little light remained. The only sounds were the crunch of snow beneath our boots and the occasional rustle of movement in the underbrush. My hand hovered near the hilt of my sword, every nerve in my body on edge.
The trail led us to a clearing, the snow trampled and stained with blood. In the center lay a carcass—a stag, its body torn open as if by some great beast. Steam rose from the wounds, indicating the kill was fresh.
"Stay alert," Lorn said, his voice barely above a whisper. He drew his sword, the steel glinting faintly in the dim light.
A low growl echoed through the clearing, sending a shiver down my spine. The trackers formed a protective circle around me, their weapons at the ready. The growl came again, louder this time, and from the shadows emerged a creature that defied explanation.
It stood on four legs, its massive body covered in mottled black fur. Eyes like burning coals glared at us, and its jaws were lined with jagged teeth that dripped with blood. But what struck me most was the faint, otherworldly glow that emanated from its form, as if the creature itself were a fragment of the Rifts.
"By the gods," one of the trackers breathed.
The beast snarled, its gaze locking onto me. For a moment, time seemed to freeze. Then it charged.
"Scatter!" Lorn shouted, lunging forward to meet the creature head-on.
I drew my sword, the weight of the blade familiar in my hand. Fear threatened to consume me, but I pushed it aside. This was no time for hesitation. The blood of the Winterfells ran in my veins, and I would not falter.
The battle was chaos. The beast moved with unnatural speed, its claws slashing through the air. The trackers fought valiantly, their blades striking true, but the creature's hide was thick, its strength overwhelming. I circled around, looking for an opening, my breath coming in sharp bursts.
Lorn's sword found its mark, slicing across the creature's flank. It roared in pain, its glowing eyes flaring brighter. Seizing the opportunity, I lunged, driving my blade into its side. The beast twisted, knocking me to the ground with a powerful swipe of its claws. Pain shot through my shoulder, but I gritted my teeth and held on.
"Now!" Lorn yelled, and the trackers converged, their blades striking as one. The creature let out a final, ear-piercing roar before collapsing to the ground, its body dissolving into a shimmering mist.
I struggled to my feet, clutching my injured shoulder. The clearing was silent once more, save for the heavy breathing of the men around me.
"Your Grace, are you hurt?" Lorn asked, his eyes scanning me for injuries.
"I'll live," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. My gaze fell to the spot where the beast had fallen, now empty save for the faint glow of the mist lingering in the air. "What was that thing?"
"I don't know," Lorn admitted, sheathing his sword. "But if there are more of them…"
"Then we have work to do," I said, determination hardening my voice. "Send word to Mara. The rifts are stirring again, and the North must be ready."