Chapter 22 – Without a Weapon
Zio ran along the trail.
Uphill, following the narrow path that climbed from the cabin toward the forest belt above.
His shoes struck rock and packed snow in a steady rhythm. His breath followed the movement.
Air went in cleanly and came out the same way, without hitching, without friction, without the desperate burning that weeks ago had dropped him into the snow after only three laps.
Midway up the incline, a loose stone shifted under his heel.
Zio adjusted without stopping. His ankle found its angle before his mind could catch up.
His foot slid a fraction, his weight tipping forward, balance caught before it fell too far. The next step landed clean. His tempo did not change.
On the open ground, he did not slow.
He turned and ran downhill.
The descent tested his knees more than his lungs. His muscles felt faintly hot, a dull heat from use, not from strain.
By the time he reached the cabin again, his breathing was heavier, but whole. Unbroken. Unstopped.
He eased himself down to a walk.
Zyon stood near the cabin wall, his staff resting on his shoulder. He had been watching the entire time.
Zio stopped a few steps away, hands braced on his thighs. He waited for his breath to settle. It did settle.
Zyon did not comment on the run.
“Enough,” he said.
Zio straightened.
Zyon nodded once.
“From now on,” he said, “you’ll find your own food in the lower forest.”
He paused, then added, “don’t use your weapon.”
Zio frowned slightly, but said nothing.
Zyon turned and walked back toward the cabin door. He did not look back. The door closed behind him.
Zio stood there a moment longer.
The path upward still stretched before him. The forest below waited just as quietly.
He turned downhill.
The slope gentled as Zio left the main trail.
The snow thinned first, breaking into patches that exposed dark earth beneath.
The ground here held moisture, not ice. Each step pressed deeper, leaving clear prints that lingered longer than they should have.
The air changed with it.
He drew a breath and caught the scent of damp soil and crushed leaves.
The air held in his throat, unfamiliar but steady. His breathing shifted on its own, slower now, fuller.
Zio slowed his pace.
This was no longer an open trail. The trees grew closer together, trunks thicker, roots breaking through the soil at irregular angles.
Light fell in fractured bands, never settling long in one place.
He crouched briefly and brushed the ground with two fingers.
In Greyhollow, tracks faded quickly. Wind and routine erased them. Here, marks remained.
Zio stood and moved on, careful without hurrying. His posture shifted.
His steps were measured. His gaze no longer followed the path ahead, but the space between the trees, the ground just beyond his next step.
This was not nostalgia.
He did not think of the woods near the village, or the hunts he had followed there as a child.
A shallow depression caught his attention.
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Then another.
He stopped.
Zio knelt beside the first mark.
Not deep.
He pressed his thumb to the edge. The soil yielded easily, but the shape held. Too clean. Too compact for something light.
The second mark lay a little ahead.
Then the third.
Their spacing made him still.
He measured it with his eyes. The distance between marks was longer than it should have been. Not random. Consistent.
Zio followed slowly.
The trail did not weave the way small animals usually did. No hesitation. No doubling back. It cut forward in clean angles, circling roots and stones without breaking rhythm.
One imprint landed partially on a rock.
Zio’s brow furrowed. He nudged it with his shoe. The stone rolled farther than expected, leaving a faint scrape in the soil.
He looked back at the print.
Its edge was blunt. Compressed.
Not a claw mark.
He stood, scanning the surrounding brush. Nothing moved. Wind stirred the leaves.
Zio exhaled through his nose.
He adjusted his grip on the strap over his shoulder, then stepped forward again, slower now.
Each step adjusted to the ground ahead, avoiding soft patches without conscious effort.
The tracks sloped downward.
Another set of marks appeared alongside the first, overlapping, then separating again.
Zio stopped once more.
His mouth set hard, not from fear, but calculation.
He did not turn back.
He followed.
The brush ahead shifted.
Not a sudden burst. Just a brief vibration, low to the ground.
Zio went still.
Then an animal burst out.
The rabbit stood half a body taller than anything he had ever seen near Greyhollow. Its fur was thick and coarse, mottled gray-white, blending too well with the thin snow. Its ears were shorter, pulled tight back. Its hind legs braced its body, muscle clearly visible beneath the fur.
The rabbit stared at Zio, alert.
Then it moved.
Snow sprayed as it lunged forward, not straight, but at a sharp angle that forced Zio to give chase. He reacted without thinking, pushing off hard, shoes gripping the damp earth.
The rabbit did not bound wildly. Each leap was controlled. Measured. It cut between two trees, brushed a low root, then changed direction again without losing speed.
Zio kept chasing it.
His stride lengthened. His breathing stayed even, drawn deep and steady as the ground tilted unevenly beneath him.
A loose stone shifted under his heel; he corrected mid-step, shoulders dropping to keep balance.
The movement came without thought, carved in by weeks of running the same broken trail until his joints learned faster than his eyes.
The rabbit veered left.
Zio followed a fraction too late.
He slid, one foot slipping on wet ground before catching again. Snow dirtied his calf, cold seeping through the fabric, but the distance between them did not close.
The rabbit cleared a fallen log in a single motion.
Zio jumped after it, his hand slapping bark as his shoes scraped the top. He landed hard, knees bending to absorb the impact.
The rabbit was still running.
The forest blurred at the edges of his vision. Branches snapped back against his coat. The sound of his own steps mixed with the dull thud of something lighter, but not light enough, striking the ground ahead.
The rabbit did not slow.
Zio drove his pace harder.
He adjusted his angle, cutting across the slope instead of following the tracks directly. The gap shortened, just slightly, but enough for him to notice.
The rabbit glanced back once.
It stopped abruptly.
That stop broke the timing.
Zio’s foot landed expecting movement ahead. Expecting space.
Instead, the rabbit was already there.
The rabbit leapt back toward Zio.
The impact slammed into Zio’s chest.
Pain flared. His breath tore out of him as his balance shattered.
He staggered, his shoes gripping the ground just long enough to keep him upright.
The rabbit did not flee.
It spun again.
The second kick came heavier.
Zio fell, hitting the ground shoulder-first, snow exploding around his face. Cold flooded his mouth. His teeth clacked as air was driven from his lungs.
For a moment, the world thinned.
His lungs locked. Sound vanished.
Pressure built in his chest, a sharp ringing filling his ears.
He rolled onto his side, coughing, hands clawing at the snow until air finally scratched its way back in.
The rabbit hopped back two body lengths, then stopped again.
As if it were playing.
Zio pushed himself up onto one knee. His legs trembled, not from fear.
He tested his weight. Pain did not bloom.
He stood.
The rabbit charged forward, not past him, but straight at him.
Zio reacted on instinct. He stepped into the motion, arms lifting as the animal kicked again.
The blow glanced off his forearm this time. The impact still rattled bone, but his other hand closed around fur.
The rabbit twisted violently.
Claws scraped his sleeve. Zio lost his grip and fell again, this time onto his back. Snow filled his collar. His breathing was fast now, uneven.
He laughed once.
Then he rolled and lunged forward as the rabbit tried to break away.
They collided.
Zio’s shoulder slammed into the animal’s side. They rolled together, snow and earth torn up beneath them.
A hind leg struck his stomach. He grunted, teeth clenched, and tightened his hold.
This time, he did not let go.
The rabbit thrashed, its strength shocking at this close range.
Zio saw a rock beside him.
He slammed the rabbit toward the rock.
The rabbit shrieked. Rolled, then stood again.
The rabbit jumped. Its movement slowed.
Zio surged forward, fist clenched, and punched the rabbit.
The rabbit fell.
Zio leapt, grabbing the rabbit’s leg.
He held his breath, then pulled and lifted it.
One final, heavy slam toward the sharp edge of the rock.
The forest settled.
Snow slid softly from shaken branches. Leaves whispered as the wind passed through them, slow and low. Somewhere farther downslope, something small moved, then went still again.
Zio’s breathing was the only sound left nearby, rough at first, then gradually evening out as the echoes of the struggle faded into the trees.
The rabbit lay beneath Zio’s foot.
He reached down and gripped its fur.
His fingers trembled.
He tightened them anyway.
The weight pulled at his arm as he lifted it. Snow clung to the fur.
Zio walked back toward the cabin.
The sun had sunk behind a higher ridge, leaving the lower slopes wrapped in dim blue and gray.
His steps slowed on the final stretch.
Zio stopped in front of the door.
A knife lay on the porch. Beside it, a coil of rope. Newly cut.
Zio set the rabbit down on the porch. He worked in silence.
The cabin door creaked as it opened.
The hearth was lit. A small, steady fire burned low, its flame controlled. Enough to hold back the cold. No more.
Zio stood there a moment, unmoving.
Zyon was nowhere to be seen.
No sound came from the back room. No staff leaned against the wall where it usually rested.
Zio stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
