MCU : Child Of Winter

Seven years had passed since the first time I followed Father into the woods to learn the ways of the hunt. In that time, I had grown—taller, stronger, and quieter. The forest had become a second home to me, and the language of tracks and shadows was no longer foreign. Sometimes Father would send me out alone to check the traps he had set days before, trusting that I now knew how to move like the wind, how to listen to the forest's breathing.

Other days, I spent time with Elias and Thom, our laughter echoing through the meadows and over the riverbank. But today was one of the quiet days—one of the hunting days.

I strapped my bow over my shoulder and fastened my satchel, checking that my small blade and coils of twine were in place. The morning light had barely touched the rooftops of Marlow as I stepped toward the door.

"Mom, Dad, I'm heading out to check the traps," I called over my shoulder.

Mother appeared from the kitchen with a cloth in her hands, her eyes soft but alert. "Be careful, son," she said

Father gave a short nod from where he sat by the hearth, sharpening one of his knives. 

The air was thin and sharp, like the edge of a blade. Jack pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he stepped out of the house, the frost-covered grass crunching beneath his boots. A pale sun hung low in the sky, filtered through morning mist that clung to the treetops like breath frozen in place. Winter was close now. The kind of winter that bit through leather and cloth and crept into your bones when you weren't watching.

He had left before the village stirred. Only the soft whisper of wind and the distant clatter of a loosened shutter broke the silence. Slung across his back was his bow, along with a quiver of arrows and a satchel containing string, hooks, and an old hunting knife his father had once used. The blade was duller than it used to be, but it still held a sliver of its past edge—and Jack liked the weight of it. Familiar. Grounding.

He passed the fence at the edge of their property and followed the worn path that led into the forest. Trees loomed on either side like watchmen, their branches bare and stretching like arms toward the gray sky. Birds chirped distantly but didn't sing. Even they seemed to know the season was changing.

This was not the first time Jack had gone into the forest alone. In the last two years, Father had trusted him more and more to handle the smaller hunts and check the trap lines. Jack had learned how to walk in silence, how to tell when the forest was calm—and when it wasn't.

Today's route would take him in a long arc through the northern woods, past the river bend and then uphill toward the rocky ridge. Five traps in all. He'd check each one, reset them if needed, and be home before dark. That was the plan, at least.

He paused at a familiar tree—an old pine with a deep scar along its trunk from lightning long ago. Here was the first snare. He knelt down, brushing away the leaves. A soft crunch, then movement.

A rabbit, caught cleanly by the leg, eyes wide and still alive.

Jack hesitated. The rabbit's sides heaved in panic, and he could feel the way its tiny body trembled through the wire of the snare. He hated this part the most. But he knew what had to be done.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

With practiced hands, he ended its life quickly, then removed the snare and reset it. He wrapped the rabbit in a cloth and tucked it into his bag. One catch. Four more traps to go.

He stood and looked around. The mist had started to burn off, and pale beams of sunlight filtered through the treetops. The forest felt calm this morning—almost too calm.

He kept moving, listening for signs—birds suddenly quieting, branches snapping, the scent of something off in the wind. But all he heard was the rustle of squirrels and the distant gurgle of the river far below.

The second trap was empty. Nothing disturbed, still set from the day before. He re-baited it with a dried apple core and moved on, now deeper into the woods where the canopy grew thick and the air colder.

Something about the silence made him grip his bow tighter.

Jack crouched low as he approached the third trap, hidden near a grove of cedar trees where the roots curled like claws gripping the earth. He moved slowly, keeping his steps deliberate, the way Father had taught him—heel first, then toe, careful of dry leaves or snapping twigs. It wasn't just about stealth. It was about listening. Reading the world before it spoke too loudly.

The snare was sprung.

Blood darkened the earth around it, but the trap itself was empty.

Jack furrowed his brow. He knelt beside it, fingers brushing the ground. The wire had been torn, not unclasped. The marks in the soil showed something had struggled violently—claw marks, shallow and erratic, cut deep into the frost-covered mud.

"Fox?" he muttered aloud.

But the claw pattern was broader than a fox's. And the wire hadn't just been chewed through. It was bent, twisted. Mangled.

Something had yanked the trap loose.

He took a breath and stood, glancing around. The forest remained quiet, but a different kind of quiet now—tense, watchful. As if the trees were holding in a breath.

He slung the trap over his shoulder and moved on.

The fourth snare was set near a low ridge, under a thick growth of ferns and moss-covered stone. Jack followed the stream uphill and paused near a fallen tree. A familiar mark—his own notch in the bark—told him the snare was close.

Sure enough, the trap was triggered. This time, a pheasant lay caught, its wing twisted unnaturally, but already lifeless. Jack exhaled, relieved it hadn't suffered. He removed the bird carefully and reset the snare with a fresh bait of dried berries. His hands worked quickly, efficiently.

Two animals caught, one snare destroyed, one empty. Not a bad run.

But something still didn't sit right.

Jack stood still for a long moment, scanning the trees.

Then—crack.

A twig, to his left. Farther into the woods.

He froze, breath held.

Another sound—slow, heavy crunching. Not a deer. Not a fox. Something with weight.

Jack slipped behind the mossy rock, crouching low. His hand moved instinctively to the bow at his back, and he nocked an arrow silently. His heart thudded—not with fear exactly, but with anticipation. The unknown.

Nothing appeared.

No movement, no sound.

The wind shifted slightly, brushing against his face and carrying with it a scent—musky, warm, with a trace of blood.

Jack swallowed.

Whatever it was, it wasn't hunting him. At least not yet.

He waited another minute, then slowly rose and crept out from behind the rock. The sound was gone. The forest had swallowed it whole.

"Could've been a boar," he whispered to himself, but he didn't believe it. Boars were noisy. Reckless. This… this had moved with purpose.

He pushed forward toward the fifth and final trap. The deepest point in the forest, near the edge of a steep gorge where the trees grew sparse and the wind sang through jagged stone. He had only gone this far a few times before—usually with Father.

But today, he was alone.

The forest thinned as Jack moved uphill. The undergrowth gave way to scraggly grass and crooked trees whose bare limbs twisted like old hands. The ground here was harder, streaked with stone and root. Cold wind cut between the trees, carrying no birdsong now—only silence and the dry hiss of leaves scraping bark.

Jack paused at the edge of the slope and looked down into the ravine. This place was older than the rest of the woods. Even Father called it strange. He said nothing grew here the way it should. Animals avoided it. Sounds never echoed right.

But one of the best game paths crossed this place, and so, years ago, Thorne had taught Jack to place a trap here, hidden near a dead elm with a hollow base. Jack's breath fogged as he moved slowly downhill.

He passed a tree split by lightning, blackened to the core. Then he saw it—his fifth snare, tucked between roots and half-covered in dirt. It had been triggered. The wire hung loose, stretched taut into the hollow beneath the elm.

Jack's hand gripped his bow tighter.

He crouched, checking the edge of the hollow. There were tracks in the dirt—bigger than any he had seen today. Deep. Wide. Whatever it was had weight.

He reached into the hollow, slowly pulling the trap line. Resistance. Something was still there.

With a sharp tug, he pulled it out.

His stomach turned.

The trap had caught the hind leg of a small stag—but only the leg remained. Jagged, torn at the joint. Blood soaked the wire. Fresh.

Jack stood quickly, scanning the woods. His heart beat faster now, pounding in his ears.

Something had come here recently. Something big. And it hadn't eaten in peace—it had ripped the kill apart.

A low wind stirred, but it wasn't cold now. It was hot. Wet.

Behind him, a branch snapped.

Jack turned slowly.

At first, there was nothing. Just trees. Shadow. Quiet.

Then something moved.

It stepped between the trunks like a shadow given shape, its form massive. Jack's eyes widened. His breath caught in his throat.

It was a bear.

But not like any bear he'd seen before. This one towered over the forest floor, easily three meters tall. Its shoulders were wide as a cart. Its fur was matted and dark, streaked with scars. A massive paw, clawed like daggers, scraped against a tree, shredding bark like parchment.

Its head turned. Eyes locked onto Jack.

He couldn't move.

The grizzly rose fully onto its hind legs, towering now like a nightmare, blocking out the pale light above. It opened its jaws, and a thunderous roar split the silence—raw, primal, filled with rage and hunger.

The sound shook the ground beneath Jack's feet.

And in that frozen moment, with his fingers locked around the grip of his bow, Jack knew:

He was not the hunter anymore.