The Spine was a place of endless trees and towering mountains, where the wind howled through the rugged terrain and the snow fell thick in the winter. It was a harsh world, unforgiving and wild, but it was home. Leo Hawthorne didn't know much else. Born on the edge of the Spine, in a small, secluded cabin carved into the mountainside, his life was shaped by the land that surrounded him. His mother, Elira, had died giving birth to him, leaving his father, Roderic, to raise him alone in the isolation of the mountain wilderness.
Roderic was a man of few words. He didn't have the gift of storytelling or the charm of laughter. Instead, he spoke through actions, his lessons taught by example. There was a quiet strength in him that Leo absorbed without fully understanding it, and it was that strength that Leo would carry with him throughout his life.
As a child, Leo was small and often clumsy. His feet were awkward on the rough terrain, and his hands lacked the steady skill his father displayed when setting traps or drawing a bow. But Roderic was patient. With each passing day, he taught Leo how to move silently through the forest, how to listen to the rhythm of the land, and how to survive in a world that showed no mercy.
By the age of four, Leo had already learned to fish. The river near their cabin was a cold, fast-moving stream that cut through the valley, winding its way between jagged rocks. Roderic would take Leo there early in the morning, before the sun had fully risen. Leo would sit on a flat stone, his small hands gripping the fishing rod, his eyes fixed on the water as his father silently worked beside him, untangling lines and casting nets.
"Fishing isn't just about catching fish," Roderic would say, his voice a gravelly whisper. "It's about patience. The fish aren't in a hurry. You shouldn't be, either."
Leo tried his best to hold still, though his small legs would grow restless. He would watch the ripples in the water, wondering if the fish would ever bite. His father would never rush him. Instead, Roderic would teach him the finer details—the way the fish would shift with the currents, how the water would change when a fish neared, and how to feel the weight of the line as it went taut.
"Patience, Leo," Roderic would say, his eyes focused on his own line. "When you rush, you miss the world around you."
By the time Leo was five, he had learned the basics of trapping. The Spine was full of animals—deer, rabbits, and even the occasional mountain lion—and Roderic had taught Leo how to set snares and build traps for food. They would venture deeper into the woods, where the trees grew thick and the ground was soft with moss.
Roderic would walk beside Leo, his steps sure and confident, while Leo followed behind, copying every movement. He learned to set the snares with precision, to choose the right kind of wood, and to judge the best places to trap animals.
"Animals are clever," Roderic told him one day, crouching beside a trap. "They'll avoid what's wrong, but they'll always go where it feels safe. Learn their habits, and you'll always know where to find them."
Leo nodded, his young mind absorbing every lesson his father offered. He didn't always understand it fully, but he knew that his father's silence spoke volumes. There was a peace in the wilderness that Roderic seemed to understand in a way that Leo couldn't yet grasp. Every lesson, every action, felt like a step toward something greater, even if Leo couldn't put it into words.
As the years passed, Leo grew stronger and more skilled. By six, he was learning to wield a bow. It was a small bow, meant for a child, but Leo handled it with the care of someone who understood the importance of every shot. His father would take him into the woods, where they would quietly stalk their prey. Roderic would show Leo how to knock an arrow, draw the string back, and release it in a single smooth motion.
"The bow is an extension of you," Roderic explained, as they stood in the tall grasses of the valley. "It should feel like it belongs in your hand. When you pull the string, it should be like you're pulling the air itself. Let it become part of you."
Leo listened intently, his small hands gripping the bow tightly. It felt awkward at first, his arms straining under the weight of the bow, but as time went on, he learned to pull the string back with ease. He didn't hit every target at first, but each arrow that flew straight filled him with a quiet sense of pride. His father's approval was given not in words, but in the way he would nod silently, a small flicker of pride in his eyes.
Despite his father's stoic nature, Leo could feel the weight of the loss of his mother. Sometimes, late at night, when the winds howled outside their cabin, Leo would lie awake, staring up at the ceiling. He would ask his father about her, but Roderic would simply look away, his face tight with grief.
"She was a strong woman," Roderic would say, his voice thick with sorrow. "She would have been proud of you, Leo."
And though Leo didn't fully understand the depth of his father's sorrow, he knew one thing for certain—his mother was a presence in their home, a memory that lingered in the quiet moments between them.
Leo's early years passed like this—quiet, steady, and full of lessons in the ways of the wild. He had learned the art of survival, the patience of fishing, the skill of hunting, and the quiet discipline of the mountain life. His life was a simple one, but it was one that taught him everything he needed to know about the world. He knew how to live off the land, how to endure hardship, and how to be silent in the face of adversity.
But little did Leo know, the path ahead of him was about to change forever.