Aire returned home the moment the stranger assured her he was fine, and the blood on him was from the rabbit.
However, her walk home felt longer than usual.
The snow had deepened. The cold had worsened, and Aire could no longer feel her fingers.
She kept flexing them around the grip of her bow as she walked, trying to force life back into them.
The wind bit through her cloak with ease.
Every gust felt like knives against her skin.
Aire lowered her head and kept moving.
The image of the stranger remained stubbornly lodged in her thoughts. The man had looked half dead.
She had never seen anyone look so exhausted before.
Eventually the familiar outline of her uncle's house appeared through the snowfall.
Relief flooded her immediately. She needed warmth, a roof, a bath, and maybe even a blanket if she got lucky.
Her pace quickened.
Snow crunched beneath her boots. The closer she got, the stronger the smell became.
Aire froze at the scent of freshly cooked soup.
