He’d seen the Moon Valley in every season, but winter made it feel mythic—like a place pulled from some half-remembered dream.
“Collin, stay still!” Nic shouted from the far bank.
Collin froze mid-step.
Still a dozen yards from shore, he listened—really listened—as the lake spoke beneath him. A low, guttural groan rippled through the ice, deep and ancient, vibrating up through his boots and into his chest.
His breath hitched. His spine prickled. The sound wasn’t sharp or sudden, but drawn out—like a leviathan shifting in its sleep.
A flicker of panic rose sharp in his throat. He didn’t dare look down, but in his mind, the image was instant and vivid, the ice fracturing beneath him, a sudden plunge into black water, the air torn from his lungs as the lake swallowed him whole.
Nic was on his way back with a long metal spike. “Here. This is a good spot to make our fishing hole.” He dropped to his knees and began to uncover the ice, pushing the snow into a pile around their feet.
While Aries and River remained on the bank, gathering kindling for the fire, Collin and Nic focused on cutting through the thick ice. First, they hammered a spike through to create a small puncture. Once the opening was wide enough, they took turns sawing through the dense layer—one slicing steadily while the other chipped away at the edges with a pick, ensuring the water didn’t refreeze as they worked. The effort left them sweating despite the cold, but after a laborious stretch, the jagged hole was finally wide enough.
With the opening ready, they quickly set up their fishing lines, fastening hooks and weights before baiting them. Nic secured the lines along his walking stick, then carefully laid it across the hole. As he adjusted the placement, Collin pulled his gloves back on, his fingers stinging from the icy air.
“Damn, it’s cold,” he said, teeth chattering. He headed for the bank, eager to warm up over the quickly growing fire.
Nic ran after him, dragging his thick gloves over his own hands. “You mean, invigorating!”
The friends huddled around the fire, which had grown so large the flames were almost licking the lower branches of the trees. They took turns to collect more kindling and to chip away the new ice forming over the fishing hole.
When it was his turn to gather more firewood, Collin wandered off the snowy beach, letting his steps pull him toward the edge of the woods. Most of the forest here was a tangle of thorny undergrowth and snow-choked vines—impossible to navigate without an axe.
Still, something caught his eye.
A narrow gap between two bushes, just wide enough for a person to slip through. The branches around it looked unnaturally clipped, the cuts clean—too clean for a deer trail.
Collin shifted his bundle of firewood and stepped closer. He hesitated only a moment before dropping the logs and squeezing through the opening, brushing frost from his sleeves.
Itwasa trail—or had been, once. Overgrown now, but someone had been through here. Recently. He knelt, brushing a few bent twigs aside, eyes tracing the rough line of the path. Knife marks on the underbrush. Human. Deliberate.
A thrill stirred in his chest.
If he only had his blade... He could almost see himself following it, winding deeper into the forest until he hit one of the old North Town trails—maybe even something older.
But before he could take another step, they were shouting for him.
The firewood.
He cast one last glance down the narrow, shadowed path. Next time.
When Collin returned to the campfire, the boys were in deep conversation. He fed the fire before sitting down.
“She sighed like that three times in a row,” Nic said with a smug smile, arranging the newly added tinder.
“You mean she was sighing in disappointment,” Aries muttered, tossing another log on the blaze.
“She was not! And if you must know, she was too exhausted to even stand afterward.” Nic grinned. “Helen practically melted. I had to carry her out of the shed.”
“You exaggerate everything,” River said, though he couldn’t help a smile.
“I do not! I simplyemphasizethe highlights.”
Collin raised an eyebrow. “Does Helen know you talk about her like this?”
Nic shrugged, unbothered. “Probably. But she loves it when I nuzzle her throat. That spot right there—” he tapped the base of his neck—“makes her hum like a tuning fork.”
