Chapter Text
The wind slashed like invisible blades, biting into exposed skin with a cold so cruel it seemed to lick the bones from the inside out. Cain yanked his hood down over his ears, but the thick wool did little to block the gusts that came rushing down from the forest like insistent, frozen fingers. The sack of flesh and hide jostled against his back with every step, its weight growing heavier, more unbearable by the moment.
The sun had begun to stain the horizon with pale strokes of orange, but the light brought little comfort. The cold remained. And he knew it would remain for a long time.
He preferred the solitude of his cabin, where the only sound was the crackling fire and the distant howl of wolves. There, his brother Abel lay, ravaged by a relentless fever that left him even paler than usual. But winter was closing in, and no one survived winter without flour, salt, and other provisions. The deer and wolf pelts he carried would fetch a few coins—perhaps enough to keep them alive until spring. That is, if the villagers didn’t decide they’d rather see him dead first.
Cain’s eyes swept across the forest. Ancient trees loomed like sentinels, their gnarled branches entwining above like cadaverous hands trying to strangle the sky. The forest whispered, but its murmurs carried no judgment. Unlike the villagers, who spoke his name as if spitting something rotten from their mouths, the forest didn’t care who he was. Here, he knew every trail, every footprint, every place where the deer hid and where the shadows grew thickest.
It was a refuge. A shelter. Maybe even a home.
The first glimpse of the village made his skin prickle—and not from the cold. Small wooden houses, their thatched roofs blackened by time, leaned toward one another as if conspiring in hushed tones. The scent of smoke and damp earth clung to the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed shut in haste. Cain didn’t need to hear the whispers to know they were about him. He could feel their weight, the unspoken accusations pressing down like unseen hands.
The village never forgot. Never forgave.
He quickened his pace, shoulders tensed. He needed to sell the pelts and leave before the murmurs became something more tangible. Before the story repeated itself.
Then, a stronger gust of wind rushed from the forest. But this time, something came with it.
A sound.
A low whisper, barely distinguishable from the rustling of dry leaves.
A call.
He stopped.
Slowly, he turned his head back toward the dark trail he had come from.
The wind died at once.
Silence swallowed everything.
And deep within the forest, between the gnarled trees, something was watching him.
But as quickly as the feeling came, it vanished.
Cain entered the village through the main gate—a simple wooden structure, more decorative than functional. The moment his boots touched the dirt-covered ground, the murmurs began. He didn’t need sharp senses to hear the whispered words passing between the villagers, each syllable dripping with disdain.
He was used to it.
He had grown up with those words swarming around him, like flies buzzing over an open wound.
“There he goes,” a woman muttered, her voice low but laced with venom. She pulled her child closer, as if merely crossing Cain’s path might curse the boy.
“They should’ve burned them all when they had the chance,” a man grumbled near a vegetable stall. He didn’t look directly at Cain, but the words were meant for him.
Cain clenched his fists but kept his head high. He knew that reacting would only make things worse. And it wouldn’t be just him who suffered the consequences—it would be Abel, too. And his brother had already endured more than enough.
By the time he reached the central square, where the makeshift market had been set up, he dropped the sack of pelts onto the ground with a dull thud. The space was small, lined with wooden and cloth stalls—some shielded against the wind, others hastily thrown together. The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat mingled with the sharp stench of rotting vegetables and horse manure.
“Deer pelts,” Cain announced, opening the sack to reveal its contents. “Good for winter. If you want them, step up.”
For a moment, no one stepped forward. The villagers stared at him as if he were a wild beast—something to be feared and avoided. An uneasy silence settled over the market, and Cain felt the weight of their gazes, sharp as blades pressing against his skin.
At last, an older man, thin and bent like a tree battered by the wind, shuffled closer with hesitant steps. He wore a tattered hat and a patched-up coat that barely looked capable of keeping out the cold.
“How much for the pelts?” the man asked, not meeting Cain’s eyes.
“Fifteen coins,” Cain replied.
The old man shook his head, a dry smile tugging at his lips. “Five. They’re not worth more than that.”
Cain bit his tongue to keep from snapping back. He knew the pelts were worth at least ten, but he also knew arguing was useless. They always undercut him, and he had no choice but to accept it.
“Ten,” he countered, keeping his voice steady.
“Seven. Not a coin more,” the old man said, folding his arms.
Cain clenched his fists. He wanted to argue, but he couldn’t afford to lose the sale.
“Seven,” he agreed, handing over the sack.
The old man tossed the coins into Cain’s palm and walked away without so much as a thank you.
Cain spent the rest of the morning trying to sell what little he had, but most of the villagers ignored him. The few who did approach were just as hostile, offering insultingly low prices or refusing to deal with him directly. When he finally managed to sell the last of the pelts, he shoved the coins into his pocket and left the market, the weight of humiliation pressing down on his shoulders.
On his way out of the village, he was stopped by a tall, broad-shouldered man with disheveled blond hair and a sneering smile. A hunting knife spun lazily between his fingers.
“Cain,” the man drawled, stretching out the name like an insult. “Still trying to blend in with the rest of us?”
“I don’t want trouble,” Cain said, not slowing his pace.
“Of course you don’t,” Allan said, falling into step beside him. “But, you know, some people around here think you shouldn’t even be among us. They say you and your brother are dangerous. Just like your mother was.”
Cain stopped walking. Slowly, he turned to face the older man. Allan was taller, stronger, but something in Cain’s stare made his smirk falter for just a moment.
“Say whatever you want about me,” Cain said, his voice low and steady. “But don’t speak about my brother. Or my mother.”
Allan laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Relax, I’m just saying what everyone already knows. Witchcraft runs in your blood.” He leaned in closer, his smirk returning. “Maybe one day, we’ll do to you what we should’ve done to her.”
Cain didn’t move. His muscles coiled with tension, but he stayed silent. He knew that any word, any reaction, would be used against him. Without another glance, he turned and walked away.
Allan’s laughter followed him, echoing through the village like a curse.
The walk back to the cabin was slower. Humiliation and anger burned inside him, but he couldn’t let them take hold. Not for himself, but for Abel.
When the cabin finally came into view—a small, simple structure built from rough wooden planks and topped with a thatched roof—Cain felt a brief flicker of relief. Here, at least, he could be himself.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The house was plain, built from rough wood and packed earth. A single room held everything: the fireplace, the dining table, the straw beds, and the few belongings the brothers owned. The warmth of the fire cast flickering light across the walls, stretching long shadows that danced like specters as the flames crackled. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs—an empty gesture to ward off the sickness creeping through Abel’s body.
Abel lay near the fire, carving a small piece of wood with a dull knife. His face was calm, but his breathing was heavy and uneven, as if every breath took more effort than it should. His pale skin made the dark circles under his eyes look even deeper, like hollows carved into his face.
Cain sat beside him on a wooden stool, watching with a mix of worry and helplessness.
“Did you sell them?” Abel asked, not looking up from his carving.
“I did,” Cain said, tossing the coins onto the table. “Not much, but enough to last a while.”
Abel set down the knife and the half-carved wood, finally meeting his brother’s gaze. His face was growing thinner by the day. He crossed his arms and frowned.
“Did they say anything?” Abel asked, his voice weak but his tone firm.
“The usual,” Cain muttered, looking away. He didn’t want Abel to worry, but he knew there was no use hiding anything from him. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
Abel sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, placing a hand on Cain’s shoulder. His skin was too warm, feverish.
“You don’t have to do this, you know?” Abel said. “Letting them treat you that way. I should go to the village more often.”
“You’re still recovering,” Cain replied quickly. “Leave it to me. It’s just for a little while longer.”
Abel hesitated but nodded. He knew Cain wouldn’t change his mind. He also knew that, no matter how much his brother pretended not to care, every insult left an invisible scar.
The fire crackled in the hearth, sending trembling shadows across the walls. Outside, the wind howled like a living thing, promising that winter would bring more than just the cold.