2. Thrag

2

THRAG

S now crunches beneath my heavy boots as I trudge through the wilderness, my breath a plume of mist in the freezing air. The weight of my axe is a familiar comfort against my back. The cold wind bites at my scarred face, but it's nothing compared to the chill of solitude that's settled within me.

I mutter to myself, a low growl that's swallowed by the howling gale. "Weak," I say, the word tasting like ash. "I couldn't protect them." Memories of my clan flash before my eyes—my brother's laugh, my sisters' playful shoves, my chieftain's proud gaze. They're all gone, wiped out by the treachery of our own kind. I ball my hand into a fist at my side.

The trees around me are bare. Their skeletal limbs reach up to a sky that's the color of slate. I've been on my own for what feels like an eternity, ever since the last of my kin fell. I can't forgive myself for surviving when they didn't. I'm a warrior without a cause, a leader with no one to lead.

As the light begins to wane, I find a spot to set up camp for the night. There, hidden and protected from the elements, is a small cavern. I'm about to start gathering wood when I spot it— a faint glow in the distance, barely visible through the thickening snowfall. Curiosity piques my interest, and I move in closer.

Below me, nestled in a valley, is a human settlement. The buildings are crude, made of wood and stone, with smoke spiraling from their chimneys. Humans, with their fragile bodies and soft lives, have never held much interest for me. They're weak, or so I've been taught. Yet, as I watch them scurry about, preparing for the winter, I can't help but feel a spark of... something. Admiration? Pity? I shake my head, disgusted with myself.

The wind cuts through the forest like a blade, and I welcome its bite. It's a reminder that the world is a harsh place, one that doesn't forgive weakness. I've seen enough of it, watched enough of my kin fall to know that survival is a privilege, not a right.

I turn my attention away from the human village when I spot movement out of the corner of my eye. It's a deer grazing in the nearby trees. Its graceful movements belie the harsh reality—it's as much a survivor as I am. I ready my axe. My muscles tense, ready to strike. But then, a sound carries through the trees, a sound so out of place it stops me in my tracks—laughter, human laughter.

I follow the sound, my footsteps silent despite the crunch of snow underfoot. Through the trees, I spot them—two human children, playing near the forest's edge. They're oblivious to the danger that lurks in the shadows. Their laughter is a stark contrast to the silence of the wilderness.

I should turn away. Humans are nothing but trouble. Yet, I find myself watching them, their joy infectious even to a hardened warrior like me. That's when I hear it—a low growl of a predator on the prowl. It's a wolf, its eyes set on the unsuspecting children.

Without a second thought, I'm moving, my body propelling forward with a speed that belies my size. The wolf lunges at them, its fangs bared, but it's no match for my axe. The blow is swift and lethal, and the wolf collapses at my feet.

The children stare at me, their eyes wide with terror. One starts to cry, but the other steps forward. His fear gives way to something else—curiosity, perhaps, or wonder.

"Santa?" the boy whispers, his voice trembling.

I scowl, the word meaningless to me. "What's a Santa?" I grumble.

The children exchange glances before the older one speaks up. "Claire, our teacher, said Santa is the spirit of Christmas. He brings gifts to children who are kind and nice."

I scratch my head, utterly baffled. "Santa," I mutter, the word foreign on my tongue. I grunt and nudge the wolf carcass toward them with my boot. "Take it. Eat."

Their faces light up, gratitude shining in their eyes. "We'll tell everyone Santa gave us food to help us get through winter," the boy says as they start dragging the animal back toward their settlement.

I watch them go, their laughter fading into the distance. "Santa," I say again, shaking my head in disbelief.

As I turn and continue on my way, I can't shake the feeling of uncertainty. These humans, with their talk of Santa and Christmas, are different from what I've been taught. They have hope, a belief in something greater than themselves. And for a moment, just a moment, I wonder what it would be like to be a part of something like that.

But I push the thought away. I'm a warrior. I have no place in their world, just as they have no place in mine. Yet, as the first stars of the evening begin to twinkle in the sky, I can't help but feel a strange connection to those children, to their laughter and their talk of Santa.

I circle back toward the human settlement, drawn by an inexplicable urge. The children's words about this "Claire" nag at my thoughts. What kind of teacher fills young minds with tales of gift-giving spirits when winter threatens to kill them all?

Through the trees, I spot a figure moving through the snow. The way they move catches my attention - purposeful, determined. Different from the scurrying I usually see from humans.

"That must be her," I mutter aloud, watching from my hidden position. "The one who teaches about Santa." I snort at the ridiculous word, but something keeps me from turning away. But then the figure disappears into the treeline.

A teacher wandering around in these woods? Either very brave or very stupid. Maybe both. Without another passing thought, I head back to my camp.