Deep within the Aber Mountains.

Boka trudged alone through the dense forest. Rain had soaked him to the bone. He was freezing. In these silent, undulating peaks, he was the only soul moving forward in quiet determination.

The downpour showed no sign of easing. Raindrops hammered against leaves, splashed into mud—sounds echoing in Boka’s ears.

No life stirred here. Only loneliness and death lingered.

He’d left his cabin some time ago. Night had brought biting cold. Head bowed, Boka walked aimlessly. He seemed to search for something, yet felt lost. Even he didn’t know why.

He stayed alert. The Aber Mountains’ terrain was treacherous. At night, one misstep into a crevice could be fatal.

Boka uncorked his wineskin and gulped a few swallows. His poor tolerance made alcohol warm him quickly. Bringing spirits had been wise. But who’d told him that? The memory slipped away. So much in his mind had grown hazy.

With winter approaching, the forest floor lay thick with rotting leaves. They squelched wetly underfoot, sticky and nauseating.

Marks dotted nearby trees—left by whom? Perhaps by Boka himself. They kept him from losing his way in the dark.

Boka’s vision was impaired; shadows often drifted across his sight. Yet his hearing was unnaturally sharp. Walking silently through the woods, he could sense things far away.

Now, he sensed something.

He crouched low, slowed his steps, and crept forward. Something alive lay ahead.

Boka scaled a boulder—the highest point nearby. He didn’t know what faced him, but the feeling, the stench of blood in the rain… *Wolves!*

Two icy eyes glowed in the pitch-black forest.

Why were wolves here? Boka had never seen them nearby. Their territory lay on the other side of the mountains. From the height of those eyes, this wolf could easily kill two grown men.

Boka scanned the surroundings. Only one wolf. Had it strayed from its pack? Or, with winter coming, was it scouting new hunting grounds for starving kin?

It gnawed on something—a deer, perhaps.

No matter. Boka already had his bow off his back, an arrow nocked. They couldn’t settle here. This area would become the deadliest place in the Aber Mountains.

He steadied his breath and drew the resilient bow. Rain meant aiming slightly high. He didn’t sight with his eyes—his gaze only gave rough direction. The rest was instinct. Let senses capture the prey: its breath, its pulse, its very life. Boka released his fingers.

*Whoosh!*

The arrow sliced through raindrops, splashing white droplets. It arced gracefully into the darkness.

A whimper followed. Those icy eyes flickered out.

Boka already had a second arrow ready—just in case. Unnecessary. He approached the corpse. His first shot had pierced its throat. The gray wolf’s pelt was thick and silvery, larger than he’d guessed. Good thing he’d succeeded. Otherwise, *he’d* be the one lying dead.

But Boka froze.

A girl—barely twelve—lay still in the mud.

Her face was deathly pale. Blood seeped from her right hand, two fingers missing.

Had the wolf been feeding on *her*?

Boka sighed. He crouched beside her, helpless. Why was anyone else out here? If he’d found her sooner…

He had to bury her. His humanity demanded it. He couldn’t leave this child’s body to rot and be torn apart by beasts.

He reached to lift her by the shoulders—

…

*Warm.*

Shedding his pack, Boka swept the girl into his arms and sprinted toward his cabin a mile away.

*A living person. Finally.*

***

Rain had fallen for two more days.

At dusk, Boka often gazed from his window at the endless mountains stretching into the distance.

Rain drummed against the wooden roof—*pitter-patter*—strangely soothing amid the silence. Bee glue sealed the timber gaps, layered with sticky clay. This shabby cabin was watertight.

Strange images flickered in Boka’s mind—blurry, vanishing when he tried to focus. He touched the scar on his head. The injury from three months ago had nearly killed him.

His attention returned to the wolf pelt in his hands. He’d gutted the massive gray wolf after retrieving its body. He’d considered nailing it to a tree as a warning, but remembered wolves were vengeful pack hunters. Better to tan its hide. Thick fur from this high-altitude beast would keep him warm.

Boka carefully scraped fat from the pelt with a razor-sharp dagger. This step would fade the musky odor. Later, trimmed and sewn, it’d make a fine coat.

The scent of meat stew had filled the cabin for hours. He’d boiled the meat in lake water until half-cooked, roasted it over flames, then slow-simmered it in seasoned broth over charcoal. Living alone so long, he’d learned to find joy in small things.

…

He turned. The girl on the bed was sitting up.

She’d been staring at him blankly for some time. Boka hesitated, meeting her gaze.

“You’re awake.”

She said nothing, just kept watching.

“You’ve slept nearly two days,” Boka said. “Good thing you pulled through.”

Pain flickered in her eyes as she looked at her bandaged right hand—two fingers gone.

“A wolf attacked you. It took two fingers.”

*(He’d actually amputated the infected stumps with a fire-sterilized blade. Without medicine, he couldn’t stop the rot.)*

Still no reaction. No emotion crossed her face.

Then she noticed her loose linen tunic—replacing her torn dress. Suspicion hardened her stare.

“Your clothes were soaked. You had a fever. I had to undress you.”

Her ragged black dress hung on the wall.

She was only eleven or twelve. Boka felt no inappropriate thoughts—just frustration. Why would a child even consider that?

“Hungry?” Boka ladled stew into a clay bowl. “I’ve been feeding you broth and bread these past days.”

He gave her most of the meat. “Eat well. You need strength.”

She took the bowl slowly, eyed him once, then devoured the food. She must have starved long before he found her—she carried nothing but that bloodstained dress.

“The wolf bit off your fingers,” Boka joked lightly. “Now you’re eating it.”

*Ptooey!*

She spat out a mouthful, coughing violently. His attempt at humor backfired. Her expression tightened, but she didn’t push the food away.

Boka pressed his palm to her forehead. Warm, but the fever had broken. Her wound showed no infection.

He poured wine from a wooden barrel into a small cup. “Drink. It’ll warm you.”

She paused, clutching the blanket, and sipped carefully.

“Good…”

Her first words.

“I might have made it myself.”

She didn’t catch his slip.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Hmm?”

“You saved me. Thank you.”

Boka stayed silent. Something about this girl unsettled him. Her stillness wasn’t just fear—it was unnatural calm. Even learning she’d lost fingers, she hadn’t cried.

“What’s your name?”

“…Aisha.” She hesitated. “Aisha Laselle.”

“Aisha… I’m Boka. Do you know me?”

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“I mean—have you seen me before? I found you in the mountains. Do you live here too?”

Aisha shook her head.

“Sorry. I ask strange things. I can’t remember much after a head injury.” Boka shrugged helplessly.

Seeing her bowl empty, he placed the whole pot before her. “Eat slowly.”

Aisha kept eating, but her voice came softer now.

“Boka… do you live here alone?”

Being called by name felt odd.

“I think so. Only one set of belongings in this cabin.”

“You seem happy.”

“I am. Finally, someone to talk to.”

In the Aber Mountains’ winter silence, that loneliness was crushing. Even by day, no animals stirred. Everything withered in the bone-chilling air—a world sealed off from everything.

“Aisha… why were you in the mountains? Your parents?”

“Dead.” Her tone was flat.

“Oh…”

“War killed them.” Her face stayed icy. “I ran here alone.”

“War? There’s a country beyond these peaks?”

“Yes. Over there.” She pointed out the window toward the highest summit—piercing the clouds even from afar. She’d crossed *that* alone?

“Boka.” Aisha’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“What is it?”

“Do you… find me annoying?”

“No. Why ask that?”

“Can I stay with you?”

“What?”

Her question stunned him.

“I can’t survive alone. No convent will take me. Slavers might grab me.” She stopped chewing, staring hard at him. “I can work for you. And in a few years… I’ll be prettier.”

Her voice caught. Boka’s large hand settled gently on her messy hair, stroking softly. His eyes held warmth.

“No need to explain, Aisha. I’m just surprised.” He smiled. “I live alone anyway. If you don’t mind… I’ll be your family.”

Aisha bowed her head. After a long pause: “Then I’ll trouble you for a while.”

Boka smiled back.

“My father’s grave is behind the cabin,” he said. “Lucky he left a letter. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even know my own name.”

“He’s gone?”

“Yeah. The yellowed parchment… it’s been years.”

Boka sighed slightly. "I can't remember. I might have lived alone here for two or three years. Then one day, I fell into a mountain crack. A heavy blow to my head wiped everything again. My memories only go back about three months."

When Boka woke in the valley crack, his face was caked with dried blood. He wandered the mountains for two days. Then he stumbled upon a cabin. Inside were daily tools, preserved meats in the cellar, and clothes that fit him perfectly. Finding his father's letter finally revealed his identity. Skilled with a bow and arrow, a true forest survivor—he could only be Boka.

"Aisha, do I look old? How old am I?"

Though he checked his lake reflection, Boka often doubted his sense of age.

"Your beard."

"What?"

"Trim it clean."

"Oh! Right!"

Living alone for three months, Boka hadn't groomed at all. His beard covered half his face, making him look weathered. He fetched a basin of water and trimmed with a dagger. The thick growth took ages to clear. He even cut his hair short. Under the oil lamp's dim light, the water's reflection blurred. He accidentally cut himself twice.

"How about now?" Boka said.

"Early twenties," Aisha said. "Very young."

"Really? I thought I was over forty," Boka scratched his head.

A moment of silence passed.

"You're different," Aisha said thoughtfully.

"Different?"

"Yes. Not like anyone I know."

"I don't understand."

Aisha smiled faintly but didn't answer.