The night settled heavy over the village, warm and thick with the scent of damp earth and the buzzing of unseen insects.

  A candle flickered weakly in the small wooden home, its light casting long shadows against the rough-hewn walls.

  Inside, a family gathered at their table, their supper steaming in mismatched bowls. The air smelled of spiced broth and fresh bread, a simple but good meal.

  But the children were not eating.

  The youngest, a boy no older than six, sat with his legs tucked under him, eyes wide, staring at his food as though it might bite him.

  The eldest, a boy of twelve, picked at his stew with an air of boredom, his mouth twitching in the beginnings of a smirk.

  And their father was not having it.

  “You think this is a joke, boy?” the father rumbled, setting his spoon down with a deliberate thud.

  The oldest son shrugged, unimpressed. “What’s the worst that could happen? We miss a meal?”

  His mother gasped, hand flying to her chest as though he had uttered something sacrilegious.

  “Don’t be saying things like that after sundown,” she whispered, casting a nervous glance toward the window.

  The night pressed against the glass, thick and still.

  The father leaned in, voice low, the way a man speaks when trying to keep a fire from spreading.

  “You best watch your tongue, boy. Else the Hollow Man will come for you.”

  The youngest child whimpered, his spoon clattering to the table.

  The oldest rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, come on,” he muttered. “You’re just makin’ things up to scare us.”

  His father’s face darkened.

  “You think so?” he said. “Then listen close. And you tell me if it sounds like a story.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The mother sighed, shaking her head. “It ain’t right, filling their heads with that sort of thing.”

  But she did not stop him.

  She only glanced at the door, as if to make sure the latch was bolted.

  And the father began.

  “He comes from the cold,” the father murmured, voice dropping low.

  “The north, where the snow don’t melt, and the dead don’t stay buried.”

  The fire crackled.

  “The Hollow took him,” he went on. “Turned him into something else. A hunter that never rests.”

  “He don’t got a soul anymore,” the mother added grimly.

  The youngest child whimpered.

  The father continued, eyes locked on his eldest son.

  “They say he walks in silence, his eyes black as a grave left open.”

  His wife nodded, wringing her hands.

  “And his sword burns with the blood of gods.”

  The eldest son rolled his eyes again.

  “So what? He sounds like some mercenary with a fancy blade.”

  The father gritted his teeth.

  “You don’t understand,” he said.

  He leaned forward, voice a whisper.

  “They say he don’t bleed when cut, don’t die when stabbed.”

  “That’s just a story,” the eldest said, but his voice was quieter now.

  The mother shook her head.

  “You think that?” she asked. “Then why do the men who ride north never return?”

  The fire burned lower.

  The darkness pressed closer.

  The father’s voice was barely more than a breath.

  “If you don’t behave—if you lie, or steal, or speak ill of the old ways—then one night, you’ll hear it.”

  The eldest swallowed, despite himself.

  The youngest clutched his spoon tight.

  “Hear what?” the eldest asked.

  The father’s eyes were shadowed.

  “The sound of boots in the snow.”

  Boots crunched against frost-hardened ground.

  The air was thin and bitter, the kind of cold that ate through fur and settled in bone.

  A blade scraped against a whetstone.

  Sparks flickered, dying as quickly as they were born.

  The fire burned low, barely enough to keep the frost from creeping in.

  A skinned hare roasted over the coals, turning slowly on a spit, the smell of charred meat curling into the wind.

  A man sat beside it, quiet, unmoving.

  His sword rested against his knee, longer than a man’s arm, heavy with the weight of its own history.

  The steel gleamed dully in the firelight.

  The wind shifted.

  The man reached for his blade.

  He did not turn his head.

  He did not stop the slow, careful scrape of metal against stone.

  Snow fell around him in a hush.

  Nothing stirred.

  The wind howled across the ice, carrying whispers too faint to name.

  The blade sharpened.

  The fire burned lower.

  The eldest son sat frozen in his chair.

  The youngest had buried his face in his mother’s side.

  The fire crackled.

  The candle flickered.

  Outside, the night was still.

  Then, somewhere in the distance—

  The wind shifted.

  And the father smiled grimly.

  “You hear that?”

  The eldest didn’t answer.

  Because he did.