Moonstone Quarry The winter sunrise, red on white

solharr stood still as granite, gaze fixed on the stag that drifted near the edge of the herd. not a young buck. thick in the chest, legs bowed with age. proud still, but slow. he would not survive the next snowstorm. better it end here, with purpose.

ezra moved first—good. the boy did not need words to follow. he swept wide, pressing low to the frostbitten ground, and solharr, in turn, took the other flank. years of hunting carved into the lines of his stride; slow, then purposeful, then silent. they ghosted the outer edges of the clearing like shadows circling firelight.

the herd did not spook right away. not until ezra's teeth snapped close behind a younger doe, her yelp drawing the elder’s head. that was all the opening they needed.

solharr surged forward like the breaking of a ridge—no bark, no cry, just the thud of his weight into the tall grass, muscles coiled and unleashed. the herd exploded around them. hooves churned the earth. dust and snow flurried into the air. but the old one... the old one turned too late.