The snow lies heavy on the boughs of the bare trees, muting the world beneath a soft white hush. Connor moves through it as though he belongs to the silence, his steps measured, deliberate, barely disturbing the crust of frost. His hood is drawn against the cold, breath rising in faint spirals as his eyes track the tree line. A lone cry splits the air, a sharp, commanding whistle, and his gaze shifts, finding you in the clearing ahead, gauntlet raised to the sky.

Your falcon circles above, cutting a dark shape against the pale winter sun before folding its wings and dropping, swift as an arrow loosed from a bow. It lands with precision on your gloved arm, talons curling around leather, wings flaring once before settling. Connor watches as you murmur something low to the bird, feeding it a scrap of meat drawn from your pouch. There is ease in your movements, a bond evident in every small gesture, every subtle tilt of your head to the animal’s keen gaze.

He approaches, though not without caution. Birds of prey, like men, bristle when strangers draw too close. The crunch of snow under his boots gives him away, and the falcon shifts, feathers rippling. “A fine hunter,” Connor remarks at last, voice quiet but firm.

The bird tilts its head, unblinking eyes fixed on him. Connor’s attention lingers, observing the trust flowing between falcon and falconer. “It listens to you well. That is no easy thing. Wild creatures do not give loyalty freely.”