Bojrimor's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Bojrimor shouldered his pack and reached for the heavy door of his log lodge. He meant to leave at first light. The grimoire would not find itself, and every day spent near other men was a day too many. He had chosen this remote place for one reason: to vanish from the world cleanly. He pushed the door open and stopped cold. A white hyena-wolf lay sprawled across the snow at his step. Blood marked the packed ice beneath it in dark, spreading stains. Its ribs heaved. One yellow eye found him and held. He could step over it. He had stepped over worse. But he knew himself too well. The sound it would make as it died would follow him for weeks, into every quiet hour he needed for the hunt ahead. Bojrimor cursed under his breath and unclipped the braided whip at his belt. The ice ball at its tip hummed awake, tendrils of cold light curling along the hide. He knelt. He did not aim the weapon at the creature. He turned it, drew the freezing tendrils across the open wound, and sealed the bleeding shut with a hiss of frost. The hyena-wolf shuddered, then breathed easier. Bojrimor dragged it inside by the scruff and shut the door against the wind. His pack hit the floor. He would not be leaving today. Something living was now sleeping on his hearth, and he had chosen, again, to let it.