Theea
they may say you're too small, you're too young
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
I keep a few paces behind Damien, my legs shorter but my stride steady, refusing to let the gap grow. He hasn’t slowed for me, but he hasn’t rushed ahead either, and I’m grateful for that—no mollycoddling, no questioning whether I can keep up. Just trust. The snow crunches under my boots no matter how carefully I try to step, the sound sharp in the otherwise empty expanse.
Every weapon I own is on me. Three throwing knives, two pale daggers, my hunting bow—strung tight over my shoulder with a leather scrap serving as a makeshift quiver for the four arrows I could scrounge. It’s not much, but it’s mine. The cold presses in like a living thing, crawling under layers of wool and leather, trying to sink into my bones. I keep flexing my fingers against it, feeling the stiffness even through my gloves. My dad’s old coat swallows me whole, heavy and worn at the seams, but it’s warm. It smells faintly of leather and pine smoke, and wearing it feels like carrying a piece of home on my back.
When Damien asked me to hunt with him, I’d been thrilled—and when I learned why, there was no question. A man-eating snow leopard? That needed to be stopped. I wasn’t about to let my friend go after it alone.
I listen as he explains, his voice cutting through the wind, his words sharp with conviction. My brows knit tighter with every detail. Someone had died this morning. That was fresh enough that their blood might still be staining the snow. It couldn’t happen again. Not if we got to it first.
The wind shifts, and he stills. I come up beside him, rubbing my fingers together as my eyes follow his across the open tundra. The cold gnaws, but when he glances at me and asks how I’m faring, my brows rise, like I’m surprised he asked, though I shouldn’t be. He’s always been kind to me, even when I think he hadn’t wanted to be.
I give him an honest smile.
“Freezing,” I admit, breath misting between us, “but I’ve got a feeling there’ll be plenty of adrenaline to change that later, when we find it,” when, not if, ”and when we put it down.” My voice is steady enough, though under it I can feel the pulse of nerves. Void-creatures—serpents, luxere—I’ve faced those. But a big, hungry carnivore with five knives in each foot, one that can blend almost seamlessly into the snow? That’s a different kind of dangerous. It should scare me more than it does. Instead, I feel sharper. Focused.
Shifting the bow on my back, I squint at the jagged, sun-lined ridge ahead. The snow before us glitters faintly in the late afternoon light. Then something catches my eye—a cluster of trees pressed against a cliffside, their shadows deep against the snow. My gaze snags on the jagged score marks raked down the trunk of one, the grooves fresh and deep.
“There,” I murmur, nodding toward it.
Every weapon I own is on me. Three throwing knives, two pale daggers, my hunting bow—strung tight over my shoulder with a leather scrap serving as a makeshift quiver for the four arrows I could scrounge. It’s not much, but it’s mine. The cold presses in like a living thing, crawling under layers of wool and leather, trying to sink into my bones. I keep flexing my fingers against it, feeling the stiffness even through my gloves. My dad’s old coat swallows me whole, heavy and worn at the seams, but it’s warm. It smells faintly of leather and pine smoke, and wearing it feels like carrying a piece of home on my back.
When Damien asked me to hunt with him, I’d been thrilled—and when I learned why, there was no question. A man-eating snow leopard? That needed to be stopped. I wasn’t about to let my friend go after it alone.
I listen as he explains, his voice cutting through the wind, his words sharp with conviction. My brows knit tighter with every detail. Someone had died this morning. That was fresh enough that their blood might still be staining the snow. It couldn’t happen again. Not if we got to it first.
The wind shifts, and he stills. I come up beside him, rubbing my fingers together as my eyes follow his across the open tundra. The cold gnaws, but when he glances at me and asks how I’m faring, my brows rise, like I’m surprised he asked, though I shouldn’t be. He’s always been kind to me, even when I think he hadn’t wanted to be.
I give him an honest smile.
“Freezing,” I admit, breath misting between us, “but I’ve got a feeling there’ll be plenty of adrenaline to change that later, when we find it,” when, not if, ”and when we put it down.” My voice is steady enough, though under it I can feel the pulse of nerves. Void-creatures—serpents, luxere—I’ve faced those. But a big, hungry carnivore with five knives in each foot, one that can blend almost seamlessly into the snow? That’s a different kind of dangerous. It should scare me more than it does. Instead, I feel sharper. Focused.
Shifting the bow on my back, I squint at the jagged, sun-lined ridge ahead. The snow before us glitters faintly in the late afternoon light. Then something catches my eye—a cluster of trees pressed against a cliffside, their shadows deep against the snow. My gaze snags on the jagged score marks raked down the trunk of one, the grooves fresh and deep.
“There,” I murmur, nodding toward it.
