Page 10 of Guardian of Talon Mountain

I almost smile. “That your way of saying I'm right?”

His grin is quick and dangerous. “Don’t push it, sweetheart.”

But as we set off side-by-side into the frost-thick woods, the mountain whispering its warnings around us, a chill pulses beneath my skin. We’re not alone out here—something else is moving through these trees, deliberate and unseen, tracking our every step with a patience that feels almost practiced.

4

CALEB

Bryn hikes ahead, undeterred by the incline or the thick quiet closing in around us—like whatever broke those cameras and left those tracks in the snow isn’t worth flinching for. She moves with stubborn intent, head down against the wind, her strides long and angry—as long as snowshoes allow—pressing through the snow as if sheer will alone could force the forest to give up its secrets. She doesn’t look back to see if I’m following. She knows I am.

The ridge narrows, snow compacting beneath each step as the trees thin to scraggly sentinels clinging to the slope. My eyes scan the terrain, catching subtle signs: branches snapped high, not by wind or weight but by a hand reaching where it shouldn’t. A wedge of disturbed snow where someone sat, hidden in a thicket. A spent match near a fallen log—fresh, not even damp. Someone’s been up here, and recently.

Not alone. My gut tightens, a prickle at the base of my neck like a warning flare set to ignite. The hair on my arms lifts, instinct humming just beneath the surface as a metallic tang sharpens in the back of my throat, subtle but unmistakable. I strain to hear something—anything—but the woods press in, silent and expectant. I freeze, eyes scanning the slope, musclescoiled, ears straining for the faintest sound of snow shifting or the wind stirring out of rhythm.

“Bryn,” I call, my voice low but firm. “Slow down.”

She pauses at the crest of the next incline, silhouetted against the pale sky. “I’m not stopping.”

“I didn’t ask you to stop. I said slow down.”

She exhales, a visible cloud that bursts and dissolves in the air before turning slightly to glance at me over her shoulder. “You see something?”

I nod once, keeping my gaze on the snow. “Movement,” I say, voice low. “Not animal. Too heavy. Too deliberate.”

Her lips press into a line, but she waits. At least she’s listening. I move beside her and crouch, brushing snow away from the base of a nearby bush. There, half-concealed under the crust, is the edge of a heavy tread—deep, wide, unmistakably human. The pattern’s not from any standard boot I know, and I’ve logged more field time than most Rangers put together.

“Someone was here,” I mutter, crouching to run my fingers along the edge of the tread again. It’s not old—no frost in the grooves, no melting where snow should’ve settled. Whoever left this print wasn’t just passing through. They were watching. Waiting. Close enough to track us, far enough to stay unseen.

She crouches beside me, her breath warming the air between us. “How recent?”

“Less than a day. Possibly hours.”

She frowns, eyes scanning the ridge. “Could it have been Pete?”

“Maybe,” I allow. “But this doesn’t feel like one of his hauls. Too exposed, too direct. He knew better.”

“Then who?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

We start moving again, side-by-side. The wind claws at our jackets, slicing across exposed skin like icy razors. Exertionand cold flush Bryn’s cheeks; the wind tosses her pulled-back hair, and stray strands stick to her lips. She’s so focused, so determined not to show weakness. Even now, when we both feel the unnatural stillness in the woods—the kind that makes birds stop singing and the wind hold its breath.

I hate that I admire it—that I notice how her hips sway, how each stride seems carved from defiance, how she's always on the edge of rebellion. It gets under my skin, sharp and constant, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop watching. She’s a challenge I never meant to want.

She drifts too close to the edge, unaware that the snow has thinned over a slant of gravelly shale just ahead. Her snowshoe lands where a patch has already given way, the steady press of snow suddenly replaced by the treacherous slide of loosened stone.

“Bryn, watch...”

The words catch in my throat, too slow to stop what's already happening. Her foot lands wrong on a patch of shale, the snowshoe skidding with a sharp screech that echoes up the ridge. The rocks beneath her shift, the sound like bones grinding together—unnatural, final. My gut drops. The noise hits like a bullet to the chest, instinct shoves everything else aside.

The stone hisses as it gives way beneath her weight. She yelps, arms windmilling wildly, her balance stolen in a heartbeat. The sound of snow gives way to the rasp of gravel and grit. I see the panic in her eyes, the raw surprise as she reaches for purchase that isn’t there. Her arms flail, grasping at empty air.

Then she’s gone—swallowed by the ridge’s edge, her scream slicing through the frozen silence and hitting somewhere deep inside me like a blade lodged between the ribs.

“Shit!”

I drop my pack and lunge forward, boots grinding over slick stone as I sprint downhill, the cold air shredding my lungs. Bryn’s scream still echoes in my ears, a jagged sound that slices through the silence like a flare in the dark.

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