Chapter 02 - Hunting

Avia moved swiftly, tracing the bandits' route as it snaked uphill into the mountains. They had left a careless trail, clearly visible even to the untrained eye, marked deeply across the snowfields that expanded as she ascended. Despite her expertise as a tracker, the vandals were far ahead; catching them before sunset was improbable.
Her life had been one of perpetual motion, always prepared for the unforeseen twists of fate. She carried only essentials, unburdened by material attachments. Even if she lost her knife, she was adept enough to secure food and fire by nightfall. Her attire was strictly utilitarian: leather pants and boots to shield against thorns and rough terrain, and a short leather jacket free of cumbersome fastenings that might snag in the brush. Her hair, once cut short in her youth, now gathered in a bun—longer hair required less frequent maintenance and proved practical despite its challenges.
The higher altitude was unfamiliar territory for Avia. Sparse vegetation offered little cover, exposing her to the elements and enemy eyes alike. A biting wind swept down from a nearby glacier, chilling her to the bone—the blanket she had used was now in the grave of her daughter and son-in-law.
The three villagers she had encountered argued against her pursuit, insisting it was futile to follow the raiders. They had criticized her for not aiding in the burial of the dead, prioritizing the living over those already lost. But Avia’s resolve was unshaken. Her grandson, Putt, might still be alive, possibly a captive. She couldn’t waste precious time on the dead when the living needed her. No ghost had ever lamented their burial, and if Putt was alive, she was determined to save him. Her daughter was gone, and mourning would not bring her back, but she could still act for Putt.
In her years of service, Avia had honed the art of tracking and surveillance. Recalling an earlier mission, she remembered being captured while scouting an enemy camp. Despite her inexperience with weapons at the time, her agility had impressed the enemy leader. Rather than executing her for her intrusion, he had recognized her potential, sparing her life for the sake of what he called her "rare talent." He had even escorted her back to her camp, proposing peace and advising her leaders to value her skills. His remarks on her loyalty had stung then—implying she was too fickle to commit to a cause. Over time, however, she recognized the truth in his words; she was a mercenary at heart, dedicated to the task but not the ideology.
That youthful audacity to sneak past enemy lines had been both brave and foolish. Proximity offered poor strategic visibility and heightened risk. Since then, Avia had learned to balance bravery with wisdom, opting for strategic oversight over bold recklessness. Her approach now favored a cautious distance, ensuring she remained unseen and her movements undetected as she continued her relentless pursuit into the heart of the mountains.
Avia perched atop a massive boulder, her eyes sweeping over the encampment she had stealthily trailed to this secluded depression behind a mountain ridge. The landscape of the north was breathtaking; the mountains loomed like formidable barriers against the sky, yet the sun, barely dipping below the horizon, bathed the area in the perpetual glow of a never-ending sunset. Below, the camp lay subdued and quiet, the typical exhaustion after a day's toil palpable even from her vantage point.
Despite the night’s clarity, no smoke or flames disturbed the twilight; the invaders must have carried their fuel with them, possibly opting for low, smoldering dung fires that gave little away. Avia's curiosity about their survival tactics was more than idle wonder; understanding their methods could one day save her own life in similar conditions.
Her survey of the camp revealed about forty men, each armed with swords or spears. Who were they? Tales of child-snatchers were not unheard of in her extensive travels, but a group this organized was unusual. There were also stories about people living in these mountains, but they were said to have been gone for generations. This group's objective remained unclear.
After watching, she still couldn't pinpoint where they might be keeping the children. Blindly sneaking into the camp without a specific target was a foolhardy risk, especially when she needed to ensure Putt's safe extraction.
She decided on a different approach. Direct confrontation was necessary now, she concluded. It was essential to ascertain who they were and what drove them. And the best way to learn that was to ask them.
With her hands visibly empty to show she wasn't initiating an attack, Avia approached the camp. Her bow was unstrung and slung across her back, and her swords and knife remained sheathed — a clear gesture of non-aggression. As she expected, she was stopped, but instead of immediate hostility, they questioned her presence.
She requested to speak with their leader.
Two guards with spears escorted her, keeping their weapons trained on her as they awaited the commander. He soon appeared, assessing her from a distance with a measured gaze. Avia noted his elaborately styled ash-blond hair, his stature surprisingly shorter than hers. His beard was neatly trimmed and likely waxed, and his attire consisted of leather adorned with bronze—a leader both in command and appearance.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“My grandson,” Avia replied succinctly, believing honesty was the best strategy. Misdirection would only breed mistrust, potentially lethal in delicate negotiations. The leader studied her. Then he invited her inside the tent.
Avia glanced around and saw opulence within—bronze, brass, and fur adorned the interior. A polished copper vessel warming the space.
He invited her to sit with a gesture.
“Share a meal with me.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” Avia remarked.
“So it is. Nevertheless, business is best discussed over food, don’t you agree?” His calm demeanor suggested openness to negotiation.
Respecting the custom, Avia placed her weapons by the tent entrance but kept her dagger, mirroring the commander who also retained his. Civility was maintained, but trust was not assumed.
The commander introduced himself as Viseran, his ash blond hair styled loftily, his stature surprisingly shorter than Avia’s. His arms, bared and tattooed, spoke of his vigor.
A servant brought in diced fruit, and Viseran prompted Avia to eat. To her surprise it was fresh so high up in the mountains. She looked at the copper vessel from where the heat radiated. The tent had a smell of fat. She inquired about the heat source in the vessel. Viseran laughed, revealing they burned dried animal waste. Then, he cut the chase:
“Did you want your grandson back?”
“If he’s still alive.”
“We don’t kill children,” Viseran stated, seeming genuinely affronted by the suggestion, which Avia found ironic given their recent actions. "You seem a warrior, am I right?" he probed. At her nod, he continued, "Then you've surely ended lives yourself."
“I don’t target children,” Avia clarified.
“Exactly. Children are worth more than us,” Viseran asserted.
“How much for my grandson?” Avia pressed, steering the conversation towards resolution.
“Do you think I want money? Is your grandson a commodity?” Viseran retorted with a grin, challenging her assumptions.
“Why did you take the children?” Avia asked, prying to understand his motives.
“Does it matter if we care for them as our own, or if they’re destined for sacrifice?” Viseran countered, studying her response.
Avia considered this. She had once encountered a culture that sacrificed their first-born, believing it honored the Allvaldugers—a notion she found absurdly offensive.
“No, it doesn’t matter for our negotiation. I won’t fight you. But I don’t believe you'll sacrifice the children.”
“And why is that?”
“Because a gift of true value can't be something taken from others. It must be your own to give,” Avia explained.
“You're astute, what we call a 'mamasiente' in our old language—A woman lived long and used the years wisely,” Viseran acknowledged with respect.
“Perhaps you’ll be a 'papasiente' one day,” Avia replied, returning the compliment.
“There’s no such word. Men like us aren’t expected to reach such wisdom,” Viseran chuckled, then turned serious. “You can have your grandson if he’s among the children.”
"And the others?"
“They'll be well cared for. Many of our children died during the last storm. I need an heir,” Viseran confessed, his eyes betraying a mix of resolve and sorrow. “These mountains, they take what they want, but they are the only place we can call home.”
The conversation revealed the harsh realities of survival here. The villagers’ stores, plundered to sustain these children, were a testament to the desperate measures taken. Avia chose not to debate morality; it was done, and her focus must be on rescuing Putt and possibly aiding the other children if she could.


Avia followed Viseran out of the tent, her steps tracing his to a larger one where he gestured for her to enter.
“They’re sleeping,” he murmured as she passed, “Try not to wake them.”
Inside, the air was warm, the copper pot casting a gentle glow across the room. Avia paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimness while she took in the soft, rhythmic breathing of the children. The scent of fear lingered subtly in the air, a particular sharpness mingled with the odor of sleep and innocence. She moved quietly among them, looking for the distinctive rust-colored hair of her grandson.
She bent down beside a sleeping girl, then moved to another child with a mane of hazel-brown hair, continuing her search with growing desperation. It wasn’t until she reached the second to last child that a flicker of recognition sparked. The boy’s features, obscured by sleep and shadows, seemed vaguely familiar, yet Avia could not be sure. Had it been that long since she’d last seen Putt? She had never needed to pick him out from a group of sleeping children before.
“Have you found him?” Viseran whispered from the tent’s entrance.
She nodded, hesitant yet hopeful, and pointed. Without a word, Viseran stepped forward, gently lifting the boy with the blanket still wrapped around him, and carried him outside. Avia followed, her heart pounding with a mix of relief and anxiety.
Back in Viseran’s tent, the boy was laid down on a fleece. The lamplight confirmed her hopes: it was indeed Putt. As Avia kneeled beside him, ready to awaken him, Viseran’s voice stopped her.
“Go to sleep, ‘mamasiente’. In the morning, we break camp. We go our way; you go yours.” His voice was both firm and gentle, a command wrapped in courtesy.
“Thank you,” Avia murmured, her voice low but sincere.
Viseran extinguished the lamps, plunging the tent into darkness before leaving.
Avia retrieved her weapons and lay down beside Putt, positioning herself between him and the tent opening. Doubts lingered—would Viseran return, or had he left them the tent for the night? Did he respect her enough, or was it merely a strategic gesture?
As she lay there, Avia’s thoughts wandered to the day’s conversations. ‘A woman lived long and used the years wisely,’ Viseran had said. Did she truly feel that about herself? Her life had been spent pursuing personal knowledge and skill, not for a greater good but for her own satisfaction. Was such a pursuit of wisdom truly wise if it served no broader purpose? You were supposed to do it to serve the next life, but Avia did not bother to plan that far.
It might have been enlightening to discuss these musings with Viseran. Would his perspectives differ, given the apparent lack of a ‘papasiente’ in his culture? Avia chuckled softly to herself, her mind briefly touching on the absurdity of gender expectations. “Animal waste,” she whispered, her gaze falling on the now faintly glowing copper pot. She made a mental note to explore that technique someday.
Slowly, as the warmth of the tent and the fatigue of the day took over, Avia drifted off to sleep beside her grandson, her thoughts mingling with dreams of what wisdom truly meant.

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Mamasiente