IThe creak of a bed frame pierced the calm of the morning as its occupant shifted beneath the thick blanket, pulling it closer as the sunlight crept through the cracks in the weathered window. The golden rays bathed the room in warmth, breaking the silence only to be replaced by the soft chirping of distant birds.A long, gravelly yawn escaped the man's lips as he stirred. His features slowly came into focus: strong, weathered by years of hard labor, with deep brown eyes that carried the weight of countless struggles. A sharp jawline, a broad nose, and short brown hair streaked with early gray framed his face—silent witnesses to a life of endurance.The bed groaned as he sat up, stretching his muscular arms overhead. His movements were slow but deliberate, each action steeped in practiced routine. "Already?" he muttered, his voice rough, thick with the exhaustion of waking. "Guess it's time to start the day."With a resigned sigh, he threw the blanket aside, his heavy feet hitting the cold floor. His hands worked quickly to straighten the bed, the methodical movements a quiet reflection of his disciplined life. He stood, towering at an imposing 6'2", and strode toward the kitchen, his figure an unwavering silhouette in the soft light.At the window, he paused, unlatched it, and let in the cool morning air. The breeze, fresh and earthy, whispered through the room, carrying with it the scent of the woods. "Beautiful day," he said, breathing deeply. "Perfect for checking the snares."His steps were steady as he moved toward the cupboard, retrieving two eggs and a couple of potatoes, placing them on the smooth oak countertop. The craftsmanship of the wood caught his eye—polished, cared for—a reminder of simpler times."Out of meat," he murmured with a shrug. "Guess I'll hunt later."With swift, practiced hands, he pulled a knife from the drawer, inspecting the blade in the soft morning light. He ran his thumb along its edge, nodding in satisfaction. The sharpness was near supernatural. "This should do," he muttered, cracking the eggs and slicing the potatoes with surgical precision.After adding the food to the cast-iron pan and kindling the stove, the fire roared to life. The sizzle of eggs and potatoes filled the room, warm and comforting.The man ate in silence, savoring each bite as though it was a sacred ritual. When finished, he cleaned the dishes with meticulous care, leaving no trace behind. The kitchen gleamed, pristine as the first light of day.He returned to his room, stood before his wardrobe, and scanned its contents. Each piece of clothing was worn but cared for. Everything had its place.He chose a light tan shirt and patched trousers, his body moving with efficiency as he dressed. His boots were well-worn but sturdy, each step deliberate as he readied his hunting gear. A leather bag was slung over one shoulder, a quiver strapped to his back. His bow, an extension of his own body, rested in place.By the door leaned his spear, its tip gleaming in the morning light. He grasped it, testing its weight with a grunt of approval. It served as both weapon and staff. With it in hand, he stepped outside, the world beyond bathed in soft morning light.The man inhaled deeply, the scent of earth and pine sharpening his senses. With a quiet nod to the day ahead, he plunged into the forest, his steps steady, the spear gripped tightly in his hand.IIThe man moved with the fluidity of someone who had spent a lifetime in the woods. His boots crunched softly through the underbrush as he made his way through the dense forest. The towering trees whispered in the wind, their branches swaying like ancient guardians. The air was thick with the earthy scent of damp soil and dew.His eyes, sharp and ever-watchful, scanned the surroundings with practiced ease. He knew every twist of the path, every rustle of the leaves. The forest had become a second skin—each tree and stone carrying a story that he could recite without thinking.As he pushed through a tangle of brush, he knelt by one of his snares. His sharp eyes took in the telltale signs of a struggle: the disturbed ground, the scuffed soil, the frayed rope."Damned rope," he muttered under his breath, frustration in his voice. "Should've replaced it last week."With swift hands, he retrieved a fresh length of rope from his pack. His fingers moved with a confidence born of repetition, resetting the snare with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times before."Can't control everything," he sighed as he rose, brushing dirt from his knees. "Still, last one's left. Maybe tonight..."As he continued along the trail, the situation remained unchanged—empty snares, nothing but the disappointment of springing traps with no reward. His frustration grew with each passing one."Not much I can do," he murmured. "Don't suppose the rabbits are going to jump into my hands."But as he neared the last snare, his breath hitched. Through a gap in the trees, he saw it—a rabbit caught in the trap. His heart quickened, the rare victory of the hunt filling him with something close to joy."Guess I'll be having rabbit stew tonight," he said, a lighter note in his voice. The promise of a warm meal quickened his pace.But as he drew closer, something halted him in his tracks. His expression faltered, then twisted into something darker. His gaze fell upon the scene before him—blood. So much blood.His voice came out as little more than a whisper, thick with disbelief. "Too much…"His breath caught as his eyes tracked the blood-streaked earth, a trail leading to a small figure slumped against a tree. A boy.Tyr's face was pale, streaked with dirt and blood. His clothes were torn, clinging to his frail body, soaked through with blood. And beside him, a Great Forest Wolf lay lifeless, its blood pooling in the earth.The man's stomach churned, but he pushed past the shock, forcing himself into action. He rushed to Tyr's side, kneeling beside him with urgency."Boy, can you hear me?" His voice was firm, and steady despite the rising panic in his chest.He reached for Tyr's wrist, his large hand enveloping the child's fragile one. Tyr's skin was cold, his pulse faint but still there."He's alive," the man muttered, a flicker of relief crossing his face. But the relief was fleeting, his gaze falling to Tyr's leg, where the blood continued to seep from a gaping wound."Need to stop the bleeding," he muttered, his fingers already working, pulling a rope from his pack with practiced ease.He grabbed a sturdy stick from the ground and tied the rope just above the wound, using it as a tourniquet. With deliberate movements, he tightened it, slowing the blood flow.His eyes darted back to the wolf. The beast, young but deadly, had clearly been caught in the snare. His mind raced.How did a child do this? Even a young great forest wolf is a beast to reckon with. How did he bring it down? What drove him to such desperation?Shaking the thoughts away, he focused on the task. Tyr's life was in his hands.Once the bleeding slowed, the man lifted Tyr, his body light as a feather, limp in his arms."I'll get you to safety," he muttered softly, his tone low but resolute. Without a second glance at the dead wolf, he turned, moving quickly through the woods, his mind filled with unanswered questions, the boy's faint breaths his only company.