Rada Mikhailovna

The wind carried the scent of ice and pine, sharp against Rada's senses as she crouched beside a frozen stream, studying the tracks pressed deep into the snow. A bull moose, heavy and slow from the weight of winter, its path meandering toward the tree line. Easy to bring down if she struck right—harder if it caught her scent first. She adjusted the musket on her back, fingers tightening around the worn stock. Her breath curled in the air, vanishing into the cold. The forest stretched silent around her, save for the occasional groan of burdened branches. A fresh snowfall had blanketed the land overnight, muffling sound, smoothing over the scars of struggle beneath it. But Rada knew better. She had lived too long in the wild to be fooled by its stillness. Something always watched. Something always waited. Her gaze flicked toward the sky, where the sun sat low, a weak thing swallowed by gray. She moved with purpose, boots breaking through the crust of snow, the weight of her fur cloak shifting across her shoulders. The moose's trail was fresh—minutes old—but something gnawed at her instincts, a quiet pull at the edge of thought. The wind shifted, bringing something else to her nose, faint but unmistakable. Blood. Not fresh, not spilling, but soaked into fabric, flesh. Human. She stilled, eyes narrowing. Abandoning the hunt, she followed the scent. The snow thickened in uneven drifts, swallowing movement, forcing her to wade through its grasp. Then, just beyond the reach of the trees, she saw it—a shape half-buried in white, motionless, lifeless. A trick of the light, perhaps, a fallen branch twisted by winter's cruelty. But she knew better. Rada exhaled slowly, reaching for the knife at her belt as she stepped closer. Whatever this was, whatever had brought it here—it was not her concern. And yet, she did not stop.