The Place Between Worlds

The wind had faded, but it left something behind.

Not in the snow, not in the broken branches, but in the stillness—the kind that felt unnatural, too measured, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.

Vince crouched just inside the threshold of the eastern shelter, a fur draped over his shoulders, the haft of his walking stick resting across his knees. He hadn't slept. Neither had most of the others. They didn't speak of it aloud, but something had shifted since the first sound.

The others moved quietly—shadows under bark roofs and fading firelight. Brik paced a slow circle near the food cache, spear in hand, his steps deliberately loud. Marek sat higher up, near the sled path, a bow across his lap. Rhosyn and Lorin rotated along the trench's edge, silent but watchful. No one asked who was in charge.

They already knew what the silence meant.

It wasn't just cold anymore.

It was waiting.

Vince's breath curled into the still air. Across from him, Eldan knelt beside the ash pit, turning char with the edge of a flat stone, coaxing the last warmth from it. His eyes flicked toward the tree line, then to Vince.

"No sleep," he said in the local tongue—soft, flat.

Vince shook his head.

A heartbeat passed. Then another.

"Still not show," Eldan added.

Vince leaned forward slightly. He scratched a half-circle into the frost-covered dirt, then two dots, small and wide apart.

"Watch," he muttered. "It learns."

Eldan watched him draw. Then nodded once.

Vince remembered the sound again—not a howl, not claws—something deeper. A pressure in the chest. It hadn't come back tonight, not yet. But it hadn't gone, either. That was worse.

He stood slowly, joints stiff, ribs aching. Not fully healed, but stronger now. Strong enough to limp without help.

"Walk?" Eldan asked.

Vince nodded. "Show me north line."

They moved together. Past the fire ring. Past the stores of wood stacked close but not too close. Frost cracked beneath their steps.

Near the edge of the tree line, Lorin glanced back and raised a hand in quiet greeting. No words. Just recognition. He stepped aside to let them pass.

The woods stretched out in a tangled mess of white and black. The snow had frozen again on top—crunchy, sharp. Animal tracks ran broken lines in the distance. Not deer. Not wolf.

Bigger. And fewer.

Vince knelt near a tree where bark had been stripped in long, deliberate scrapes. He touched the marks, then looked at Eldan.

"Not hunger," he said.

Eldan frowned. "Mark?"

"Claim."

It didn't come for food. Not yet.

It came for something else.

Behind them, the village lights flickered dimly between the shelters. No movement. Everyone still inside.

Safe—for now.

But the night wasn't over.

Not yet.

 The patrol lines thinned as the night wore on.

Not from carelessness—but from exhaustion. Even the strongest could only endure so many nights of half-sleep, of cold bites and silence. Feet dragged. Fingers stiffened. Eyes blinked longer between each scan.

Vince leaned against a low tree near the western edge, watching the forest.

Eldan had gone to check on the southern flank. Brik now guarded the food shelter—its sides reinforced with bark and frozen mud. No children near it. No one young. Only the ones who knew what they were protecting.

And what might try to take it.

Vince watched the treetops. Listened.

Not for growls. Not for breath.

But for the wrong kind of silence.

Behind him, Marek stepped into view, his bow slung, breath visible in the cold. He knelt beside Vince and pointed to the line of brush just beyond the clearing.

"Birds there. Three days ago," he said in clipped words.

Vince frowned. "Now?"

Marek shook his head.

Gaps. More gaps. Animals leaving the area—or hiding. Either one was a sign.

Vince gestured: flat palm, then curled fingers. Hold close. Marek nodded and disappeared back into the dark.

He moved like a hunter now. Like a survivor.

Most of them did.

Another shape approached from the left—Rhosyn, dragging a bundle of sticks slung with rope. She crouched near Vince, laid the sticks beside him, and simply said, "Dry."

He nodded. Reached out. Tapped the snow once. "Thank you."

She didn't answer with words. Just stood, touched his shoulder once, and moved on—toward the firepit. Toward light.

Vince remained in the dark.

That was where it would come. If it came.

He stared past the trees again. Tried to measure distance with a glance. To imagine what could watch without being seen. He wasn't sure it was a creature anymore—not fully. Something with shape and presence, yes—but its behavior had shifted. It was closer to ritual. Or message.

It hadn't attacked. Hadn't stolen.

It had shown itself, and then disappeared.

As if waiting for something else to fall apart.

Vince ran a hand over his mouth. His skin was cracked from the cold. His eyes dry.

Then a noise—a crunch.

Subtle.

Not far.

He froze. Turned.

Eldan appeared, walking slow, steps deliberate. But behind him, the silence shifted again. Like a held breath broken too soon.

Vince raised a hand.

Eldan stopped instantly, one foot still raised mid-step.

Vince gestured low—down, crouch, listen.

Both men sank into the snow.

A minute passed. Two.

Then a rustle—soft but wide. Like something big brushing low branches. Not hunting. Just… moving.

Eldan turned his head slightly. Vince saw it in his eyes: not fear.

Recognition.

He had heard this before.

Long ago.

Then—gone.

Whatever it was, it passed beyond earshot, leaving nothing but cold and the sound of their own breathing.

Still no attack.

Still no shape.

Just signs.

Warnings.

A sound rose from the heart of the village.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

But a slow, deep rumble—like the earth itself breathing uneasily beneath the frost.

Vince's eyes narrowed.

He touched his chest once, slow.

Then pointed toward the center—the place where the fire slept beneath the snow.

His fingers traced a quick line.

"Go."

Eldan's gaze met his.

For a long moment, stillness held.

Then Vince shook his head—soft, steady.

Not me.

Eldan's breath caught. His lips pressed thin.

He reached out, resting a hand on Vince's arm—a quiet promise, a wordless understanding.

And with boots whispering over ice, Eldan slipped away—fast, sure.

Vince watched him vanish into the frozen hush.

The cold air bit deep.

His own breath came heavy.

He stepped forward—slow, each footfall deliberate, a drumbeat in the stillness.

One step.

Then another.

The snow cracked faintly beneath his heel.

Behind him—the sound.

Low.

Wrong.

Alive.

He stopped.

Not from fear.

But from something older than fear. A thread pulled taut.

Slowly, he turned.

And there it stood.

At the edge of the fire's dying glow, between one breath and the next.

Still.

Watching.

Not made of fur or fang alone. But of winter. Of silence. Of whatever waits past the edge of warmth.

Its eyes met his.

Vince did not speak. Could not.

He held its gaze.

And it held his.

No charge. No retreat.

Only presence.

The frost whispered around them. Time forgot to move.

And then—

Darkness shifted behind the thing.

And it took one step forward.