Torren slipped away from the camp as the afternoon light began to fade behind the peaks.
The Painted Dogs were still gathered below around the fires, speaking in low voices about the snow and the hunts that would follow. Already hunters were preparing traps. Others were checking spears and axes. First snow always changed the rhythm of the camp.
Torren did not stay to listen.
Instead he climbed the narrow trail that led above the camp toward the familiar ridge of dark stone where the wind always blew hardest. The snow grew deeper as he climbed. It had not yet become a true winter blanket, but the white dust clung to rocks and pine roots and crept into every hollow between them.
By the time he reached the ridge, the wind had grown sharp enough to sting his face.
Torren sat on a flat stone overlooking the western valleys.
From here he could see far beyond the Painted Dogs' territory. The Mountains of the Moon rolled outward in endless ridges of dark forest and pale cliffs. The highest peaks were already white with snow.
But far below, the valleys still looked green.
No snow yet.
Torren stared at that contrast for a long moment.
The mountains had entered winter first.
The lowlands would follow.
Eventually.
He closed his eyes.
The voice answered almost immediately.
You came back.
Torren exhaled slowly.
"Snow came."
Yes.
Torren opened his eyes again and watched the wind push thin trails of powder across the ridge.
"Is this early?"
There was a pause.
Earlier than average.
Torren rubbed his hands together for warmth.
"What happens if the snow stays?"
Food availability decreases.
Hunting becomes more difficult.
Torren already knew that.
Still, hearing it said out loud made the weight of it settle deeper.
"My father said goats should have moved already."
Correct.
Torren frowned.
"What does that mean?"
Possible food shortage.
Torren's eyes drifted down toward the distant valleys again.
"Then we raid."
This time the answer came without hesitation.
High probability.
Torren leaned back against the cold stone.
The wind howled along the ridge like a living thing.
He thought about the council below, about the chief speaking of hunting and traps, about the older warriors sharpening their weapons again.
Then he asked another question.
"Can we see the valleys?"
Yes.
Torren closed his eyes again.
The shift came instantly.
His body vanished.
The cold ridge vanished.
Wind exploded around him.
For a brief moment the sensation was overwhelming—the violent rush of air, the weightless drop of the world beneath him, the sharp clarity of sight far beyond human limits.
Then his mind settled.
The eagle's wings stretched wide as it rode the mountain currents.
Torren saw the world through golden eyes.
The mountains fell away beneath him in layers of rock and forest. Snow covered the highest ridges now, tracing pale lines across the dark slopes. The Painted Dogs' camp was a cluster of small shapes far below, smoke rising from its fires.
The eagle circled once.
Torren let the wind carry him west.
Below him the valleys widened.
And the snow disappeared.
The lower lands were still untouched by winter. Forests spread across the hills in deep green waves, broken by streams and narrow trails. In one clearing he saw a small Andal farmstead—wooden buildings surrounded by fenced fields.
Smoke rose from its chimney.
People moved in the yard.
Animals grazed.
Food.
Torren guided the eagle higher.
The bird cried once into the wind as it climbed along the mountain currents.
Through the eagle's eyes the world felt enormous.
The mountains were only the beginning.
Torren spoke softly, though his human body remained miles away on the ridge.
"The lowlands still have food."
Correct.
The eagle banked left, following the wind along the mountainside.
Torren watched more valleys pass beneath him. A narrow road cut through one of them—the High Road, winding like a thin scar between hills and forests.
Small groups of riders moved along it.
Merchants.
Caravans.
Supplies.
Torren felt the thought form slowly in his mind.
"If the snow stays on the mountains…"
He did not finish the sentence.
The voice did it for him.
The clans will go down.
The eagle drifted silently across the sky.
Torren watched the valleys below.
Food.
Horses.
People.
Warm lands untouched by snow.
And suddenly he understood what the older warriors in the camp already knew.
Winter had only begun.
And when the mountains grew truly hungry…
The clans would descend.