The sky was gray and heavy. The scent of pine and moss, carrying a faint chill, drifted on the wind. Pale mist rose from the black earth, intertwining with wind and snow. Amid shattered stones and fallen timber, an ice spider moved effortlessly—this land's very own spirit.
Ice spiders. In most people's minds, they were evil magical creatures. Legends said they often ran hand in hand with the White Walkers—equally cruel, equally terrifying…
Yet this one was somewhat different.
Eight eyes. Eight slender, razor-sharp legs supporting a slightly bloated body. About the size of a puppy, it was capable of hunting small- and medium-sized prey. It clearly hadn't fully grown yet, but even so, it was already an excellent hunter of forests and rocky caves.
A glimmer of humanity shone in the ice spider's eyes. Gazing at the snowy weather, it looked bored, almost lazily indifferent. Yes—scenes like this had happened countless times before. Only this time, becoming an ice spider was a first. Compared to being human, it had many more legs now, yet they moved as naturally as arms, as if guided by instinct.
Waking from the cave, crawling along strands of spider silk through the winding tunnels, it stepped out into the open, taking in a sight so different from darkness.
Its sky-blue body, hard as solid ice, gave off an aura of pure serenity. Sadly, those who knew its fearsome reputation would never stop to admire its beauty.
Climbing straight up a tree trunk—this novel sensation was a joy no human could ever experience. It chose a place where prey often passed, spun its web, then waited for victims to walk right in. At moments like this, it could bask in the warm sunlight. Ice spiders didn't particularly like the sun, but they didn't fear it either.
Days like this truly suited a lazy self… though in the end, it would always wake up.
Yes, this sense of realism could almost pass for reality itself, but it was never enough to extinguish the light of human consciousness. Distinguishing dreams from reality was never difficult for him. As for getting lost in a dream? Don't be ridiculous. I'm not some pervert—being human is way better, okay?
William had long since lost count of how many strange dreams he'd had like this. Sometimes he became a raven, mischievously pecking at sheep tails in play. Sometimes he turned into a shadow lynx, hunting after a snowfall. Dreaming of becoming livestock or wild beasts always gave him a sense of freedom…
"Ahhh! Ahhhhhh!
I am the last giant, I have no companions.
The last giant walks down from the mountains—we once ruled the world.
Ah, the little folk stole the forests, stole the mountains, stole the rivers.
They built great walls in the valleys and caught every fish in the streams…"
A bold, resonant song rang out, and William awoke from his dream.
Father was back. Clearly in a good mood. This was his favorite song to hum—The Last of the Giants.
William's father was a towering wildling, powerfully built, the kind of man whose presence alone inspired awe. Like a snow bear in human form, the wildling matched the song he sang—like a small giant himself. Nearly two meters tall, he could look down on most people with ease.
William was a cute little free folk boy. His black hair came from his mother, while his sky-blue eyes were inherited from his father. This made him the complete opposite of his younger brother, who had red hair and black eyes. Though still young, William was strikingly handsome—handsome enough that some people would believe he was a girl. That was precisely why William disliked going out; those foul-mouthed, shameless uncles were unbearably annoying.
William loved the lightning-fast runs he took as a wolf in his dreams, and he yearned for the freedom of flight when he became a bird. As a result, even at ten years old, he was still a heavy sleeper. Because of this, his nine-year-old brother Henry loved teasing him.
Naturally, William didn't care. After all, a soul far older than his age resided within his ten-year-old body—there was no reason to argue with a child. That said, ignoring Henry's teasing didn't mean he could ignore his father's scolding.
William's father worshiped giants.
He wanted to be as strong as a giant, and more than once he'd said he hoped his children would grow into brave, fearless free folk men like himself.
Hearing the song draw closer, William hurriedly got up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and tried to look more alert. He knew his father disliked his "love of sleeping."
At that moment, the sound of someone slapping snow off clothing came from outside the tent.
A deep, magnetic voice called out, "Sophia? Where are you? Come quick and see what I caught! This time it's a big one! Hahaha!"
William lifted the tent flap and saw a wildling man built like a bear. He had red hair, sky-blue eyes, and features that weren't especially striking on their own, yet somehow came together into a rugged handsomeness. He was excitedly handling his prey. When William moved closer, he saw that it was a shadow lynx about the size of a pony.
Renard deftly used his knife to bleed the beast, then began separating its hide. A lynx pelt was worth far more than its meat. The fur was predominantly white, mottled with black patterns, while its sharp teeth and claws clearly marked it as a predator.
William exclaimed in delight, "Father! It's a shadow lynx!"
The man turned and smiled at him. "William, this is a shadow lynx! Hahaha! If you ever run into one out there, be very careful. This big fellow was already wounded—otherwise, there's no way I could've taken it down alone."
Just then, a black-haired, black-eyed woman returned, dragging a little boy by the ear. From far away, his cries for mercy could be heard.
"Ow, Mom! I won't do it again, please forgive me!" Henry wailed.
But the woman showed no mercy. "Absolutely not. You'll only remember once it hurts."
The newcomers were William's mother and his younger brother Henry, who was one year younger than him. Henry had red hair like their father. Among the free folk, red hair was called "kissed by fire"—a sign of blessing and good fortune. Unfortunately, this particular blessed child didn't look very lucky at the moment. William knew his mischievous brother had recently taken an interest in a nearby ice cave and had probably gone there to play, only to get caught by their mother.
Their mother was a formidable woman. Just the fact that she kept their father firmly in check was proof enough of her methods.
Among the free folk, women upheld a spirit of independence. They could wield weapons and fight alongside men. Such women were called spearwives, just as fierce and battle-hardened as their male counterparts. William's mother was an outstanding spearwife.
According to her, she had once been a noble young lady from the North. During her rebellious years, she was captured by raiders who crossed the Wall and forced to come north of it.
William knew Henry wouldn't escape punishment this time. His mother had warned him repeatedly, and ice caves were genuinely dangerous—one wrong step and falling into an ice crevasse meant near-certain death.
Sure enough, his mother said angrily, "Renard, keep your son in line. This little brat actually dared to run off to the ice caves again."
Renard didn't seem too bothered. He defended Henry, saying, "Sophia, Henry is 'kissed by fire' just like me! His luck shouldn't be too bad. Besides, I used to crawl into those ice caves all the time when I was young—never had a problem."
Henry chimed in defiantly, "That's right!"
Sophia's anger flared even more. She knocked Henry on the head. "It's precisely because you indulge him that he's so reckless! Old gods! If Henry were even half as well-behaved as William, I wouldn't have to worry so much."
Noticing Renard skinning the lynx, Sophia's attention shifted.
"Where did this shadow lynx come from?" she asked, stepping closer to examine it.
Renard was clearly less meticulous than Sophia. For someone as rough-and-ready as him, thinking was far less satisfying than swinging fists.
"I found it while hunting," Renard said. "This big fellow was badly injured by something. When I found it, it was barely breathing. I finished it off."
Sophia examined the wound. It looked like a scrape—yet also like it had been cut by something incredibly sharp. Such injuries were rare.
Many free folk still used stone, wood, or bronze weapons: stone axes and mauls, fire-hardened javelins and spears, wooden and bone longbows. Their bows didn't match the range of the southern yew longbows, but they could still shoot arrows seven hundred feet into the air.
Yet this wound clearly looked like it was caused by a spear. But what kind of spear could do this? The free folk never mined or smelted metal, and north of the Wall there were almost no blacksmiths—let alone ironworks. Every iron sword here was precious, not to mention an iron spear.
Though Sophia couldn't figure out who had injured the lynx like this, she understood the value of food. In a world forged of ice and snow, every possible addition to the table had to be cherished.
She began helping cut up the lynx. With her joining in, the beast was quickly broken down into chunks of meat, bloodied bones, and organs. William and Henry helped as well, doing what they could. The shadow lynx ended up contributing a rare moment of family bonding for William's household.
Only William stared thoughtfully at the lynx's wound.
No one noticed the strange look on his face when Sophia puzzled over the injury. Shadow lynxes were apex predators. In the far north, the only things that could threaten them—aside from fully armed humans—
…were the White Walkers.