The warning glow lingers behind Aeryon's eyes.
[DETECTION RISK: ELEVATED]
[NEARBY OBSERVER: UNKNOWN]
He doesn't move at first.
Doesn't glance toward the treeline.
Doesn't stiffen or tense or react in any way a trained scout might notice.
He simply exhales slowly, watching his breath curl into the cold air like lazy smoke.
Tressa squints up at him.
"You freeze up for a reason, boy?"
Aeryon forces a small, almost absent smile.
"Just thinking."
"Mhm."
She thumps her cane against his shin.
"Don't think too hard. You'll hurt yourself."
He nods and steps away from her—casually, relaxed, cloak settling around him with a soft flurry of snow.
He walks toward the fire first, not the woods.
Normal.
Unhurried.
A group of villagers are talking near it—two older men and a young hunter skinning a snow hare. Aeryon approaches them with practiced ease.
"Anyone notice wolves near the treeline this morning?" he asks lightly.
The men exchange a look.
The younger one wipes his knife on his trousers.
"Wolves don't come that close to the huts," he says. "Not when we're all awake."
The other man, stooped with age, grunts.
"Could be a wildling," he mutters. "Storm drives them south this time of year."
The hunter rolls his eyes.
"No wildling gets this far past the mountains without the Watch seein' them. Could've been a deer."
Aeryon nods thoughtfully.
"Just thought I saw movement," he says. "Probably nothing."
The men shrug and continue their work.
Aeryon walks on.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The treeline sits about fifty yards beyond the farthest hut, snow gathering thick and untouched beneath the branches. Each step he takes crunches softly, rhythm steady, measured.
No one stops him.
No one questions him.
He reaches the final hut—its stone walls half-buried in drifts—and pauses, pretending to adjust the strap of his satchel.
Then he moves forward again, passing into the open snow between village and forest.
His UI pulses faintly.
[OBSERVER RANGE: CLOSE]
[DIRECTION: NORTH-EAST]
Aeryon lets his gaze drift naturally to the right, as if admiring the trees.
Nothing moves.
No tracks.
No shifting shadows.
Only the soft whisper of branches swaying.
He stops just short of the treeline.
Birds scatter suddenly from a cluster of high branches—three, maybe four—flapping upward in a frantic burst. Snow falls where they lifted off, shaking loose from the branches.
Aeryon's eyes narrow just slightly.
Birds don't usually panic unless pushed.
Another step forward.
Still nothing human-sized moves.
But then—
A shape darts between two trees.
Fast.
Small.
Quick as a shadow.
Aeryon doesn't reach for his sword.
Doesn't tense.
Instead, he crouches slowly and touches the snow.
The print is tiny.
Light.
Not human.
Not a wolf, either.
A faint crunch of snow behind him.
Aeryon straightens—not fast, not slow—turning with calm, composed ease.
Rodrik.
The Stark retainer approaches through the drifts, cloak brushing snow from low branches. His breath fogs thick in the cold.
"You walk quiet," Rodrik says. His tone isn't accusing. Just observant. "Didn't hear you leave the village."
Aeryon shrugs lightly.
"Old habit."
Rodrik's eyes narrow slightly—not suspicious, more… evaluating.
"What are you lookin' for?" he asks.
Aeryon glances back at the woods.
"Tracks," he says simply. "Something was watching the village."
Rodrik steps closer, scanning the treeline himself.
Even he keeps one hand near his sword.
"Wolves?" he asks.
"Too light-footed," Aeryon replies. "Too fast."
Rodrik grunts, scanning the ground.
"I see no prints."
Aeryon points at the faint depression he'd seen.
"Small. Quick. Moved between those two trees."
Rodrik crouches to inspect it.
His brow furrows.
"That's no wolf," he mutters.
Aeryon remains still beside him.
Rodrik rises.
"There are stories," he says quietly, almost reluctantly, "of things north of Last Hearth that move in ways wolves don't."
Aeryon lets the silence stretch for a moment.
"Wildlings?" he offers.
Rodrik shakes his head.
"No wildling leaves prints this small. Or moves like that."
He turns toward Aeryon.
"Come back to the village. Don't wander to the trees alone."
Aeryon nods.
"Of course."
Rodrik starts walking.
But Aeryon takes one last glance into the trees—slowly, eyes narrowing.
His UI pulses once more.
[OBSERVER RETREATING]
[DIRECTION: NORTH]
[DISTANCE: INCREASING]
Retreating.
Whatever watched him… knows when it's been noticed.
He turns and follows Rodrik, boots crunching in the snow, cloak trailing softly behind him.
Just before they reach the huts again, Rodrik speaks without looking back:
"You've got good eyes, stranger."
Aeryon allows a small, quiet smirk.
"I try."
Rodrik nods once.
"And good instincts," he adds. "Don't let them go dull."
Aeryon says nothing.
But as they step back into the heart of Birchwatch, one thought presses quietly at the edges of his mind:
Something north of the village saw me.
And it wasn't human.
The village seems louder when they return.
Voices carry across the snow. Someone is chopping wood in steady, echoing strikes. Children race each other around the central fire pit, kicking up flurries that sparkle briefly in the cold light.
Rodrik slows as he approaches the main square, his expression shifting from watchfulness to something more thoughtful. He studies Aeryon—not openly, but with the quiet, assessing glance of a man used to reading people.
"Come," Rodrik says finally. "Eat with us. I've questions yet."
Aeryon nods and follows him toward Garrick's longhouse.
Smoke drifts from the roof vent. The scent of broth and roasted root vegetables hits Aeryon even before they step inside.
The longhouse is warm—almost overwhelmingly so after the cold outside. Villagers sit at rough wooden tables, eating and talking quietly. Conversation dips when Rodrik enters, then resumes in a muted hum of respect.
Rodrik gestures for Aeryon to sit beside him on a bench near the hearth.
As soon as Aeryon lowers himself onto the seat, a bowl of steaming stew slides across the table in front of him—set down by Bram, who nods once before returning to his duties.
Rodrik waits until Aeryon has taken his first bite before speaking.
"You saw something," Rodrik says. "You weren't mistaken."
Aeryon keeps his tone calm, even.
"No. Something small. Quick. Light on its feet."
Rodrik's jaw shifts slightly.
"There are old tales," he says, stirring his stew. "Things that move through those woods. Some say they're shadows that grew teeth. Some say they're spirits of the First Men."
Aeryon meets his gaze.
"What do you say?"
Rodrik snorts softly.
"I say the North is old. Older than the kingdoms. Older than memory. And things older than memory tend to stay put if they're left alone."
He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing.
"But you—"
His spoon taps his bowl.
"You looked for it. Most men ignore the trees. You watched them."
Aeryon sets down his bowl slowly.
"I've learned not to overlook small things," he says. "They're often the ones that kill you."
Rodrik studies him for a moment.
"Storm took your memory," he says—not an accusation, but a knife-edge question. "But not your instincts. Or your blade-hand."
Aeryon forces a small smile.
"Instincts aren't so easy to lose."
Rodrik's gaze lingers.
A crack of wood from the fire fills the brief silence.
Then Rodrik says, "Stand."
Aeryon doesn't hesitate. He rises smoothly.
Rodrik stands too—slow, deliberate movements like a man choosing how much he wants to learn about someone.
The longhouse quiets. Bram stops chopping vegetables. A woman stirring a pot near the front watches over her shoulder.
Tressa, sitting on a stool near the fire, mutters, "Oh, seven frozen hells," but she doesn't tell Aeryon to sit back down.
Rodrik steps into the open space near the center of the longhouse.
He draws his sword.
Not fully.
Just enough for the steel to whisper against the scabbard.
Aeryon's fingers twitch toward his own hilt—
Rodrik lifts a hand.
"I'm not challengin' you," he says. "Relax."
Aeryon's hand eases but stays near his sword.
Rodrik nods, pleased.
"I want to see how you move," he says. "A man who's goin' to travel with Stark men should not be slow or clumsy."
Aeryon steps forward.
Calm.
Measured.
"Fine," he says.
Rodrik begins circling him—not predatory, but clinical. The inspection of a soldier.
"You walk like a trained man," he says. "Your balance is even. You keep your weight on the balls of your feet."
A few villagers whisper.
Aeryon simply answers:
"I've been trained."
Rodrik stops in front of him, sword still half-drawn.
"By who?" he asks quietly.
Aeryon meets his eyes.
"Someone who's not alive anymore," he lies smoothly.
Rodrik's eyes flicker, a glint of unexpected understanding passing through them.
"My condolences," Rodrik says.
Aeryon nods once.
Rodrik sheathes the blade fully and folds his arms.
"You carry yourself like someone who's seen battle," Rodrik continues. "Real battle. Not tavern scuffles. Not bandits."
Aeryon says nothing.
Rodrik tilts his head.
"Walk with me."
He heads to the door. Aeryon follows him outside, cold air snapping against his face and making the longhouse warmth seem like a dream.
They stand alone near the fire pit, away from listening ears.
Rodrik speaks quietly.
"Lord Stark could use men like you," he says. "If your memory ever returns… remember that."
Aeryon raises a brow.
"You're recruiting me already?"
"I'm observin'," Rodrik corrects. "And I'm seein' a man who's lost his past but not his skill."
He leans in slightly.
"And a man like that always has a reason for heading south."
Aeryon's pulse slows—purposefully, carefully—like a man who has nothing to hide.
"I'm looking for answers," he says simply.
Rodrik nods.
"And you'll find more of them on the Kingsroad than you will in a village of sixty people and a goat-blood witch."
From the doorway of the longhouse, Tressa shouts:
"I HEARD THAT, RODRIK! AND I'LL CURSE YOUR BEARD CLEAN OFF!"
Rodrik doesn't even turn.
Aeryon almost laughs.
Rodrik clears his throat and refocuses.
"We leave at sunrise," he says. "Pack light. Pack warm. Wolves or no wolves, somethin' was watching those trees."
Aeryon glances toward the treeline—cold, still, too quiet.
"I know," he murmurs.
Rodrik steps away, heading for the stables.
But before he can get far, he calls over his shoulder:
"And stranger—"
Aeryon turns.
Rodrik's expression is unreadable.
"Try not to make me regret letting you travel with us."
Aeryon watches him disappear behind a hut, the cloak billowing behind him.
Then he looks back toward the trees, where the watcher had vanished.
The UI pulses once.
Faint.
Quiet.
[OBSERVER: GONE]
But not forgotten.
Not by Aeryon.
Not by whatever it was.