The wind came down from the high peaks like a living thing, cold and restless, carrying with it the scent of snow and stone. In the Mountains of the Moon, the wind never truly slept. It whispered through broken cliffs, rattled the bones tied to clan totems, and moved through the dark pine forests like a wandering spirit.
That night the wind howled louder than usual.
High above the narrow passes of the High Road, where only goats and mountain men dared to tread, the Painted Dogs had gathered in a hidden valley. Their camps were scattered among crooked trees and black rocks, low fires burning between hide tents and crude wooden shelters. The warriors of the clan sat around the flames with painted faces and fur cloaks wrapped tight around their shoulders.
Some sharpened axes.
Some chewed dried meat.
Others watched the darkness between the trees.
Beyond the camp, deeper in the valley, stood a place the Painted Dogs feared and revered in equal measure.
The Weeping Grove.
It was older than any of them, older perhaps than the clans themselves. Pale white trunks rose from the earth like bones, their bark smooth and ghostly in the moonlight. Red leaves whispered against one another high above, though no wind touched them here.
At the center of the grove stood the largest of them all.
A great weirwood tree, its pale trunk carved by an ancient face. The eyes were deep hollows, and the mouth was twisted into a silent scream that had lasted centuries. Moonlight fell across its bark, turning the white wood almost silver.
At the base of the tree, a group of women knelt in the cold earth.
Among them lay Harrag's wife, her body shaking with pain.
Her breathing came in ragged bursts as the contractions tore through her again and again. The ground beneath her had already been darkened by blood and melted snow.
One of the older women pressed a hand against her shoulder.
"Breathe," she said. "The Old Gods watch."
Another woman stood nearby, clutching a small wooden bowl filled with diluted weirwood sap, dark and thick like watered blood. The liquid caught the moonlight as she stirred it slowly.
The Tree Speaker stood behind them all.
He wore a cloak made from raven feathers and strips of bark tied together with leather cords. His face was painted pale with ash, red lines running down from his eyes like tears. In his hands he carried a small bone knife and a bundle of red leaves taken from the sacred tree.
The women worked quickly, whispering prayers older than the Vale itself.
The Tree Speaker stepped forward and knelt beside the laboring woman. He dipped two fingers into the bowl of sap and touched them gently to her lips.
"For strength," he murmured. "For the Old Gods."
She swallowed weakly, her eyes barely open now.
Above them the red leaves rustled softly.
Another contraction seized her body. She screamed this time, a harsh sound that echoed through the grove and out into the surrounding mountains.
Somewhere beyond the trees, a wolf answered.
The women shifted, guiding the child as the labor reached its final moments. One of them leaned forward, her hands ready.
"I see the head," she whispered.
But then she froze.
For a heartbeat no one spoke.
The baby slid free into the woman's hands, slick with blood and birth. The child cried immediately — a thin, sharp sound that cut through the quiet of the grove.
The old woman lifted the newborn toward the moonlight.
And then the whispers began.
The child's skin was pale.
Not the pale of a newborn, but white, almost the same color as the weirwood bark behind them.
No hair darkened his head.
Even his lashes were colorless.
When the child opened his eyes, the Tree Speaker leaned closer.
The old man's breath caught in his throat.
The baby's eyes were red.
Not pink like a sick animal.
Red like the leaves of the weirwood tree above them.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
The wind outside the grove howled against the mountains, but inside the trees everything had fallen strangely quiet.
The Tree Speaker slowly rose to his feet.
The women watched him with uneasy eyes.
He stepped closer to the great weirwood and placed one hand against the pale trunk. The carved face stared down at them, its hollow eyes filled with shadow.
Then he turned back toward the newborn child.
His voice was quiet, but every word carried.
"The tree has marked him."
One of the younger women crossed herself in the old way.
Another looked afraid.
"The Old Gods have taken notice," the Tree Speaker continued.
He stepped closer and placed a red leaf gently against the child's forehead.
"This one will walk a path no mountain man has walked before."
The child cried again, louder this time.
Far above the grove, unseen by the others, a raven shifted on a branch and watched with bright black eyes.
And somewhere deep in the child's mind — though no one there could possibly know it yet — something stirred.
A voice.
Calm.
Patient.
Waiting.