Ash was starving.

  Three days without food sharpened every sense until the world felt close enough to bite. The forest creaked under the weight of snow and branches. His breath steamed in the cold air as he waited.

  The moose lowered its head to dig into the frozen grass.

  Too big. Too strong. But Ash had learned long ago that hunger did not care about odds.

  He crouched in the tall grass, muscles coiled, eyes fixed on the animal. The moose twitched its ears. It sensed danger, but like most creatures, it chose food over fear.

  Ash did not gamble with survival. He waited for the moment its guard fell.

  Then he moved.

  The sword left his hand in a clean, brutal arc. Steel tore through flesh.

  The moose staggered, bellowed once, and collapsed into the snow. Blood stained the moss beneath it.

  Ash approached without triumph. This was not a victory. This was routine.

  Another meal. Another day earned.

  He carved what he needed from the carcass. The rest, he left behind a limb, a portion of meat. Not out of mercy. The forest took what it wished from him. He returned a share so it would not turn against him.

  The wind carried distant sounds through the trees. Screams, faint and broken, echoed somewhere far beyond the clearing.

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  Ash ignored them. Not his problem.

  He returned to his cabin, a structure half swallowed by trees and snow, old wood bent by years of storms. Inside, the cold clung to the walls.

  He fed the stove. The fire crackled to life, bathing the room in orange light. Ash stared into the flames, blank eyed. The heat reached his skin. It did not reach his chest.

  Then the colour shifted.

  The orange glow bled into something wrong.

  Blue.

  Ash froze.

  His grip tightened on the sword hilt. His breath shortened, chest tightening as a memory forced its way into his mind, fire not red, not orange, but blue, consuming everything it touched.

  The same glow. The same colour.

  He stepped toward the window.

  Outside, the forest burned.

  Not with ordinary fire, but with blue flames crawling between the trees.

  Ash’s body, built for survival, trembled. Not from the cold, but from the past.

  Ash’s mind was clouded by his memories that he would never be able to escape from. He stepped outside his small cottage to take a better look, but as time passed, he could only feel bloodlust in his surroundings.

  Surprisingly quiet, yet all he could hear was the flames burning. Though it was fire, he could not feel any warmth. Ash took out his sword from the sheath and started advancing towards the forest.

  Ash started trembling.

  The scene in front of his eyes was something he could not believe. A bloodbath had turned the snow crimson. There was the king of the forest.

  A brown bear the size of a travel carriage lay upside down, its limbs cut off and a huge scar across its belly, covered in blue flames. Despite the flames, it did not seem to burn the tyrant giant.

  The atmosphere suddenly felt heavy, as if it were being pinned down by a wolf. Ash had a rough time breathing. He felt weak.

  A creaking noise echoed, like two iron plates being scrubbed together.

  Ash looked ahead. His eyes widened.

  His hands started shaking and the sword dropped to the snow. His knees trembled. He could not seem to hold himself up.

  He saw a knight in full snow coloured armour with shiny yellow accents that looked like brass. The gaps between the armour plates breathed out blue flames.

  The knight slowly walked towards Ash.

  Ash dropped to his knees and started to gag as he tried to throw up.

  Yes, the knight was headless, holding a great sword that bathed in flames and emitted black smoke.

  A Dullahan without its black steed.