The forest whispered above him, ancient and alive.
Simon moved through the underbrush with quiet purpose, the dappled sunlight tracing golden paths through the canopy. The scent of moss and bark filled his lungs. Each step felt like slipping deeper into the world's oldest secret.
This part of the territory stretched far and wide. Forest to the east — deep and knotted. Grasslands to the south — soft, swaying, deceptive in their openness. And to the west, cliffs and stone — a place where even wind cut like blades.
By the time the sun began its descent, Simon had seen nothing. No glint of mana. No shimmer of fur or flicker of power. Just birdsong and the rustle of ordinary life.
He had six days left.
And only a knife to his name — plain, worn, and honest.
But here, away from the eyes of the clan, Simon didn't feel lacking.
In the hush of the wild, he felt something else: peace. The solitude didn't press on him like loneliness. It opened him. Slowed him down. Grounded him.
He crouched beside a trail marked by a bend in the stream. A broken twig, an overturned stone — subtle signs. The kind that spoke only to those who had learned the forest's language.
Simon had caught his first horned rabbit at nine. Long before his brother. Long before anyone expected him to. Not because he was strong, but because he waited. Because he watched. Because he listened.
He gathered what he needed with steady hands: vines, branches, stones. Each knot, each notch carved into bark, was done with care. No one had taught him. He had taught himself — through failure, trial, silence.
And he knew something his family didn't.
They were born into the rhythm of glory. He had grown into the rhythm of patience.
He didn't seek the spotlight. He studied the shadows.
And in them, he moved like someone who belonged.
That afternoon, he caught sight of a blue-horned rabbit — the kind both Lyra and Eron had taken pride in catching. He watched it hop through a shaft of light, twitch its ears, and disappear back into the brush.
He smiled. He already knew where it would pass tomorrow.
Then the forest changed.
It was quiet before — but now it was silent.
Not dead. Waiting.
A shape emerged through the mist near the clearing's edge. Simon froze, half-crouched behind a thicket. The world narrowed to a single breath, a single heartbeat.
It stepped into view.
A deer — or something like it.
Its coat was white. Not pale. Not fair. White. So pure, it seemed untouched by light itself. Its antlers shimmered faintly, as if carved from frost and starlight.
Then Simon noticed the stream.
The water near its hooves had stopped moving. A thin layer of ice was creeping outward from where it stood, delicate as lace, spreading across the surface like a breath held too long. Frost curled along the rocks. Even the grass near the bank had stiffened, crystals blooming along every blade.
The temperature hadn't dropped. The air still felt the same against his skin.
But the world around the creature responded as if it had been rewritten.
Simon stared, unblinking.
This was no ordinary beast. Not even like the blue-horned rabbits. This thing radiated something deeper — not just magic, but reverence. The kind of presence that made the forest hold its breath.
He had never heard of such a creature. No tale spoke of a beast that froze the world just by standing in it. No drawing in the family scrolls, no whispered elder fable had prepared him for this.
And yet here it was.
The white deer.
The ghost of the wild.
Most would have turned back. Let it pass. Whispered of it for years without ever daring to follow.
But Simon's fingers gripped the moss. His pulse slowed.
He didn't feel afraid. He felt alive.
He knew — without knowing why — that this would be his.
Not out of pride. Not out of arrogance.
But because something deep within him stirred at the sight. As if his whole life had led to this single choice.
He would hunt the white ghost.
And in doing so, he would carve a place for himself among legends.