Sylva Mossward's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Sylva climbed the oak lookout at first light, scanning the tree line for any sign she had missed. Below her, the slim deer with branching antlers grazed in the ferns. She counted them twice. She always counted them twice. Somewhere past the ridge, her partner was still missing, and another season was sliding by without a trail. She came down and crossed to her camp. The fire ring was cold again. Moss had crept over the stones since the last time she lit it. She had not bothered to clear it. Sitting still felt like the only honest thing left. From her pack she drew the folded half of the cloak. Pine needles clung to its frayed edge. Moss stained the weave in soft green patches. She set it on her knee and did not unfold it. Then one of the deer lifted its head and bolted east. The others followed in a quick, springing line. Sylva ran after them, heart loud, hoping for a scent, a print, anything. They stopped at the broken cart at the edge of Elfroot. The same cart where the tracks had ended seasons ago. The deer sniffed the tangled rope and drifted back toward the ferns. No new prints. No fresh sign. The trail was still gone. Sylva pressed her palm to the splintered wood. She tucked the folded cloth back into her pack. Then she turned toward the village path. If no trail would come to her, she would find someone to take the herd, and she would go.