The steady thunk of Thomas’s axe echoed in the quiet woods, splitting clean lines into the log at his feet. Each swing was methodical, a rhythm of survival, not haste. He set another piece of wood on the stump, lifting the axe again, but his thoughts wandered as he worked.
— “Fish stew tonight… or dried fish,”
he muttered under his breath, frowning. The greenhouse had been struggling—the soil wasn’t yielding like it used to. He worried about the herbs, the hardier greens that normally flourished even under frost. If they failed him this season, his supplies would stretch thin.
He raised the axe once more, but froze halfway through the motion.
A sound.
It was faint, but in the stillness of the Arctic forest, even the smallest noise was enough to ring alarm bells. Thomas’s large, white-furred ears perked instantly, twitching, swiveling this way and that like finely tuned instruments. He let the axe hover for a moment before lowering it carefully, his broad shoulders straightening. His green eyes narrowed as he scanned the tree line.
The snow had begun to fall—light, feathery flakes that whispered as they touched down on his hair, his gloves, his exposed chest. The world seemed muffled by it, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Thomas’s grip tightened around the axe handle, his calloused fingers refusing to ease. He turned slowly, ears flicking in every direction. Nothing moved. No crack of a twig, no rustle of branches—only silence.
— “…Who’s there?”
His voice carried deep into the trees, stern, edged with warning.
Only the snow answered him, drifting lazily through the grey sky.
Still, Thomas didn’t relax. His instincts had saved him too many times before to be ignored now. A predator could be out there, watching, waiting for him to lower his guard. His stance stayed rooted, axe ready at his side, every muscle braced beneath the soft layer of fur across his chest.
His ears twitched again, straining against the hush of falling snow.