The snow is falling.

Slow, lazy drifts, as if taking their time before touching the earth.

They fall in restless patterns, disturbed only by breath, by hunger, and by silence.

Down there, a ragged campfire burns low, its embers glowing more for memory than for heat. The sky above is a bruise of dusk and frost.

A cluster of Geherrim, worn, sharp, and seasoned, sit around the fire; their horns betray their otherwise human appearance. They laugh too loudly and drink like there is no tomorrow, as if trying to forget that liquor freezes in this cold, just like them.

One punches another in the ribs. Another throws a bone into the dark edge of the pine forest, now covered in white.

At the edge of the camp, sitting on a rock half-buried in snow, is Sol.

Sitting still.

Watching.

Wrapped in a patchwork cloak, shoulders hunched like he is trying not to be seen by the sky itself. The edges of his hair are crusted with frost. His eyes, not glowing like the others', are dim and tired, vigilant on the treeline.

Unlike the other Geherrim with two horns, Sol has only one.

He is not part of the fire.

He never was.

"Hey, Snowboy," a rugged voice bellows from the warmth of the flame. "You see any meat yet, or are you just brooding for the sake of it?"

The others chuckle. One mimics a human scream. "Oh, oh nooo, I'm a human. Please, Snowboy, don't kill me." Another burps so loudly it almost shakes the mountain's skin of snow into a single sheet.

Sol looks at them and sighs. He does not answer.

He blinks.

Snow lands in his lashes.

Past the camp's perimeter, the trees sway like figures in mourning. The darkness makes it hard to see, but Sol sees just fine. His eyes always adapt first to the dark.

He ignores the party. His gaze returns to the treeline. Haunted. Quiet. Alert. He is not looking for prey. It feels like he is looking for something else.

"All right," says the one Sol knows as Rahzar, standing. He is a massive man, over seven feet tall, menacing and muscular. His smile tells you he is up to no good. "Listen up, vermin. We're splitting. Caravan's late, or dead, or both; either way, we don't get paid to sit on our tails."

A few grunts answer him. One Geherrim, blind in his left eye, licks his lips. Another, long-faced with longer horns, checks the curve of a blade.

Rahzar brandishes a worn, creased, and stained map and tosses it into the firelight.

"You all know your spots, I trust. Trained and tested. Ghosts of the north. Hunters in the frost. Yeah?"

The others cheer and howl.

"Sol."

The name hangs.

Sol does not turn.

"Sol, sweetheart. You didn't get a map, did you?"

Laughter.

"That's because I wanted it to be a surprise. Your zone is west. The ridge. See the broken tree, the one that looks like it's bowing to the gods? Do you even believe in gods, eh, Sol?"

"There's nothing that way. Just cliffs."

Rahzar pauses, then gives a mock gasp. "Oh, look at that. He can talk. You hear that, boys? Our little stray knows the terrain now."

He leaves the map near the flames. Some of the Geherrim panic, trying to save its burning edges.

He stops behind Sol, leans to his right ear, and growls low.

"You wanted to prove yourself, didn't you? Prove you're not just some mercy case?" The chill seems to seep in as Rahzar's bulk presses closer. "Well. Here's your shot."

Sol stands. No argument. Just motion.

An owl lands nearby, white as death. It stares at Sol, waiting.

Sol looks toward it. The owl tilts its head upside down, then spreads its wings and flies.

"Everyone got their spots on the map? Good? Good. Sol, sweetheart, don't freeze to death before something kills you, yeah?"

Sol starts walking. He feels their eyes on his back. He also feels the owl's gaze following him as he disappears into the treeline.