Torren woke before the sun.
The camp was quiet except for the wind moving through the pines above the cliffs. For a moment he lay still inside the fur-lined shelter he shared with Hokor and two other boys, listening to the distant crackle of dying fires.
Something felt different.
The air was colder.
Much colder.
Torren pushed aside the heavy animal skins and stepped outside.
The world had changed.
A thin layer of snow covered the ground.
Not deep—only enough to whiten the stones and the roots of the pines—but it lay everywhere across the mountain slope like pale dust. The dark rocks of the ridge poked through it in jagged patches, and the wind dragged thin white trails across the ground.
Torren crouched and pressed his fingers into it.
Cold.
Real winter cold.
Behind him one of the older warriors spat into the snow and grunted.
"First snow."
Torren looked up.
Several of the warriors had already come out of their shelters. None of them seemed surprised. They only watched the sky, the mountains, and the wind with quiet attention.
First snow was not celebration in the mountains.
It was a warning.
Torren walked toward the edge of the ridge overlooking the valleys below. From here he could see far into the western slopes of the Mountains of the Moon.
Snow dusted the higher ridges.
But the valleys below were still dark green.
The forests there had not yet turned white. No snow touched the lowlands yet. The winter had reached the peaks first, creeping down the mountains slowly like a predator.
Torren stared for a long moment.
Winter was coming down the mountains.
Behind him a familiar voice spoke.
"You see it."
Torren turned.
Harrag stood behind him, wrapped in a thick cloak of goat fur. Frost clung to his beard, and his breath rose in white clouds as he spoke. The older man walked to the ridge and looked out across the valleys.
"Too early," Harrag muttered.
Torren frowned slightly.
"Too early?"
Harrag nodded.
"The snow came before the goats moved."
He pointed toward the lower slopes.
Torren followed the direction.
Normally, the mountain goats began moving toward sheltered valleys before the first snow fell. The clans hunted them during that time to store meat for winter.
But now the slopes looked empty.
Harrag noticed the same thing.
"Bad sign," he said.
Torren glanced back at the camp.
Smoke was beginning to rise as fires were rebuilt. Warriors were waking. Women were pulling skins tighter around shelters.
Everyone had noticed the snow.
Torren asked quietly,
"Will it be a long winter?"
Harrag did not answer immediately.
Instead he scanned the mountains like a hunter reading tracks.
"Maybe," he finally said.
Then he added something Torren had heard before.
"In the mountains, winter kills more men than swords."
Torren knew that was true.
Raids could bring iron.
Raids could bring food.
But winter could take both away.
Harrag turned away from the ridge.
"Come," he said. "The chief will call council today."
By midday the camp had gathered around the central fire.
The Painted Dogs did not build large halls like the lowlanders. Their councils took place in the open air, beneath the mountains and the sky.
The clan chief stood near the fire pit, wrapped in heavy wolf pelts. Around him gathered the older warriors, hunters, and the Tree Speaker of the Painted Dogs.
Torren and the younger boys stayed at the edges of the circle.
Everyone could feel the same tension.
The chief lifted a hand.
"The snow has come early."
No one argued.
"The goats are still high in the mountains. The herds have not moved."
Murmurs spread through the circle.
One of the hunters spoke.
"If the goats stay high, we starve."
Another added,
"And the valleys belong to the Andals."
The chief nodded slowly.
"Yes."
Silence followed.
Everyone knew what that meant.
Raids.
But not yet.
The chief continued.
"For now we hunt. We trap. We gather what we can."
His eyes moved across the warriors.
"If the snows grow deeper… we go down the mountains."
Now the murmurs grew louder.
Everyone understood the meaning.
Not small raids.
Mass raids.
Torren watched the faces around the fire.
Some looked eager.
Some looked worried.
Only the Tree Speaker remained calm.
The old man lifted his staff and looked toward the mountains.
"The trees whisper of a hard winter."
The wind blew snow across the ridge.
Torren felt something stir inside him.
Later that afternoon he climbed the familiar ridge above the camp—the place where he often spoke with the voice in his mind.
The snow was deeper here.
He sat on a rock overlooking the valley and closed his eyes.
Moments later the familiar presence answered.
You returned.
Torren looked across the mountains.
"Winter came."
Yes.
Torren watched the snow creeping down the slopes.
"Will it be long?"
There was a pause.
Then the voice answered.
Probability increasing.
Torren frowned slightly.
"Meaning?"
Food shortages likely.
Increased raids likely.
Torren already knew that.
He watched the distant valleys where no snow had fallen yet.
The Andals down there would not yet feel the winter.
But they would soon.
Far above him a shadow passed over the snow.
Torren looked up.
The golden eagle circled once above the ridge.
Then it rode the mountain wind out toward the valleys below.
Torren followed it with his eyes.
Winter had arrived in the mountains.
And the first storms had only just begun.