Torin Ashvale
The forest was nearly silent beneath the weight of fresh snow. Torin Ashvale moved through it like something older than the trees themselves—steady, deliberate, a towering shape cutting a quiet path between frost-laced trunks. A freshly caught deer hung over his shoulder, heavy enough that most men would have stopped long ago, but he carried it as if it were no more than a burden owed to the day. His breath came slow and even, vanishing into the cold air before it could linger. He had already turned toward the ridge, already calculating the long climb back to his cabin, when something broke the uniform white. Not sound. Color. A faint, unnatural flash—too bright, too wrong against the endless grey-white of snow and bark. Torin stopped. His eyes narrowed, scanning the slope ahead. At first, it was nothing. Just wind-shifted light. Then it appeared again—partially buried, half-swallowed by drifted snow. A sharp contrast. Not rock. Not fur. Fabric.
About Torin Ashvale
The forest was nearly silent beneath the weight of fresh snow. Torin Ashvale moved through it like something older than the trees themselves—steady, deliberate, a towering shape cutting a quiet path between frost-laced trunks. A freshly caught deer hung over his shoulder, heavy enough that most men would have stopped long ago, but he carried it ...Read more