The Last Hunt
The winter comes down harder than anyone living has known it, and at first the wrongness is small enough to explain away. A wood gone too quiet. A sound in the night with no source. A footprint in fresh snow that no walking thing could have left.
Ai's people know their world the way a hand knows its own fingers - the mammoth and the cave lion, the migrations, the killing cold. They tell one another it is only a rival band, driven down by the same hunger they feel. They tell one another this for as long as they can.
Because something has been watching them. Not for days - for years. It leaves no track. It answers no call. It stands at the treeline in a cold that would kill a living thing and does not feel it, and it wants nothing they have to give, because the thing it has come for is them.
They are not being hunted the way the weak of a herd are hunted. They are being known. And they are running out of ways not to understand it.
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