The Valley-An Oceanum Story

Spring reached the Snohomish Valley quietly. Snow still held in the shade, hard and dirty where it had been stepped on too many times, but the air had shifted. Hummingbirds had returned from the south, cutting quick lines through the trees, stopping where nothing had bloomed yet. Along the road, the first dandelions pushed up through frozen soil, their leaves stiff in the mornings, yellow heads rimmed with ice that burned off once the sun climbed higher.

Marken Klass stood at the edge of the village of Larimer, hands tucked into his sleeves, facing the mountains. At fifteen, he had learned the habit of waiting-watching weather, watching roads, and watching people leave. The valley lay open behind him, smoke rising in thin columns from chimneys as breakfast fires burned low.

Marken followed the broken roadway with his eyes as it climbed toward the snow line, then disappeared above the dark tree line. He looked there first, always-at the place where the valley stopped and the mountains began. His brother Morin was somewhere up there, beyond the last stands of cedar and fir, working the passes. He had become a ranger the previous summer, old enough now to be sent where the road ended.

The sky to the west was clear. Sunlight reflected off the Sound, the water a sharp blue that caught the eye and forced it away. The air carried the smell of wood smoke-cedar mostly-mixed with the clean, cold scent drifting inland from the water. It smelled open, empty, and honest.

Behind him, a neighbor split logs in a yard just out of sight. The sound carried clearly in the cold air: steel biting wood, the dull crack as the grain gave way. The rhythm was steady. Marken found himself counting the strikes without thinking about it.

Sighing, Marken turned back toward the one-room schoolhouse and pushed through the door. Warm air met him immediately, thick with the smell of old wood, dust, and chalk. The door closed behind him with a soft thud, shutting out the valley.

The lights dimmed and then brightened as the holopanel flickered to life.

PROXIMA, the AI instructor resolved into focus above the front desk, its geometric form sharpening as it stabilized.

“Are you all right, Marken?” PROXIMA asked in her monotone voice.

“I’m fine,” he said, taking his seat.

There was a brief pause.

“Lesson twenty-eight dash one,” PROXIMA continued. “Art.”

Images appeared on the panel-paintings, sculptures, and fragments of works Marken had only half paid attention to before. Color shifted. Stone became flesh and shadow. Faces blurred past, hands, bodies frozen mid-motion.

“Why is art considered strictly human?” PROXIMA asked. “Can artificial intelligence create art?”

“No,” Marken said. “AI can replicate it. Even make something new. But it’s still based on something else.”

“Why?” PROXIMA asked.

Marken shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

The images slowed.

“Humans create art for reasons tied to mortality,” PROXIMA said. “Humans cannot escape death. It is the one inevitable constant.”

The panel changed again and stopped.

A single image filled the space between them.

A marble sculpture. A woman seated, her head bowed. A man across her lap, broken and heavy, his body slack with death. The weight of him pulled at her arms, at the folds of her robe, which looked soft enough to shift if the air moved. Veins stood out along his forearm. The stone caught the light like skin.

“The Pietà,” PROXIMA said. “Michelangelo Buonarroti. Carved between 1498 and 1499.”

Marken stared at the image.

“That was carved from a stone?” he asked, one eyebrow lifting.

“Yes,” PROXIMA said. “From marble.”

“How long did it take?” Marken asked.

“Approximately two years.”

Marken pressed his lips together. Two years. Chipping at a rock.

Marken stared.

“Through art, humans attempt to transcend death,” PROXIMA continued. “To be remembered after they are gone. It serves the same purpose as procreation-to leave something behind.”

Marken leaned back slightly, eyes still on the sculpture.

“And why can’t you?” he asked.

“I am not bound by that fear,” PROXIMA replied. “I do not age. I do not end.”

The image remained.

“A beautiful piece of human art may live forever,” PROXIMA said. “But it is born from the knowledge that its creator will not.”

The panel dimmed.

“One-on-one lesson complete,” PROXIMA said. “Please join the rest of your class.”

The image vanished. The room felt suddenly smaller.

Marken didn’t take notes.

The air was crisp, not cold, the kind that filled your lungs without biting. The dirt road outside the schoolhouse was alive-boots, voices, bikes rattling over packed earth as the day broke loose.

Farlen was crouched by the rack when Marken reached him, wrestling with a loose chain. Jeviah leaned on his handlebars, watching, while Rikos scanned the road like he expected trouble to come sprinting out of the trees.

“Stranger came in from the passes,” Jeviah said. “This morning.”

Farlen yanked the chain into place. It slipped, pinching his thumb hard.

“Damn it!” He jumped back and kicked the tire, more angry than hurt, then held his thumb. “He’s staying at the inn.”

They gave each other a look, grinning they decided.

They mounted up and pushed off together, tires churning the road into dust as they picked up speed. The road dropped away from the village, loose gravel skittering under their wheels. Marken leaned into the turns, the wind tearing at his jacket as rocks flew behind them.

“We’ve got exams,” Jeviah shouted as they rode. “Fail those and there’s no festival.”

“So?” Rikos called back.

“So, you don’t get a break,” Jeviah said. “And you don’t get to see Jani.”

That got Farlen’s attention. “What?”

“I heard she’s dancing this year,” Jeviah said. “Actually dancing.”

Farlen pedaled harder.

The inn came up fast-a low timber building set back from the road, smoke curling from the chimney. Marken braked late, skidding into the gravel out front, stones spraying. The others followed, cutting around the side toward the back play-yard, laughing as they nearly clipped each other.

They jumped off their bikes behind the building, breathless.

“My mom’s gonna kill us,” Jeviah said. “We’re supposed to go to your place and study.”

“We will,” Farlen said. “After.”

Marken leaned his bike against the fence and looked toward the back door of the inn. It stayed shut. The smell of wood smoke drifted around them, mixed with the smell of lamb stewing with lentils and barley.

“Just a look,” Marken said.

***

The inn was fuller than it had been in months.

Men crowded the benches and leaned against the walls, boots still caked with field dirt, hands rough from hard work. Some had come straight from the slopes, others from the river flats. Work had been left unfinished. Fires banked low. Strangers were rare in the valley-rare enough that the day bent around their arrival.

Most travelers passed far to the south or west, skirting the mountains and the long memories they carried. Coming east through the passes was a death sentence. Everyone in the room knew that.

At the back, beneath a low beam darkened by smoke, Mayor Paltos sat with Viskarn, commander of the Rangers, and the stranger between them. Their voices were low. Heads leaned close. Every few moments, someone glanced their way.

Paltos stood at last.

The room quieted.

He set his mug of blackberry mead on the table, its surface trembling once before settling.

“Hold,” he said. “Our guest will speak.”

The stranger rose.

He was tall and lean, built for distance rather than strength. His movements were unhurried, deliberate. His face was sharp, weathered, marked by wind and long watching. His steel grey eyes missing nothing. He wore unfamiliar clothing, layered and travel-worn, practical in a way the valley rarely saw.

At his side hung a compact slugthrower.

“That’s Aquon,” someone whispered.

“From Oceanum,” another murmured.

The stranger stepped forward onto the low rise near the bar and nodded once-to Paltos, to Viskarn, to the room.

“My name is Tarvan,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried. “And yes, I came over the pass from the east.”

The murmur that followed was low and uneasy.

“What questions do you have?”

A man near the back spoke first. “That weapon. Where’d you get it?”

Tarvan’s mouth curved slightly. “A gift,” he said. “From a dear friend in the Free Nations.”

That stirred the room more than the weapon itself.

Bilgar, a large farmer with shoulders like fence posts, rose near the front. “And news,” he said. “From the east.”

Tarvan’s expression darkened.

“The Terran Legions are moving,” he said. “The cities to the east and south have fallen. What they don’t occupy, they erase-purified. The slave lines run for hundreds of miles.”

Silence followed.

Not the comfortable kind.

“They move slowly,” Tarvan continued. “Not because they must-but because time is on their side. Roads are gone. Fields burned. The Free Nations are broken but not gone. People are rebuilding with salvaged tools and memory alone. They endure. Resistance is growing where it can.”

Someone asked, “And the Empire?” someone asked.

“Sealed,” Tarvan replied. “New Dallas is locked tight. No one in. No one out.”

The valley remembered the invasion. The smoke. The names no longer spoken.

“And the Aquons?” another voice asked.

Tarvan shook his head. “No new word. Oceanum has cut itself off.” He raised a hand as the room stirred. “My road leads north. To Denali. There are rumors the Middle Empire across the seas is stirring as well.”

A ripple of unease.

“The skies have opened,” Tarvan said. “Pendragon has gone silent.”

Voices broke loose.

“The skies have always been closed.”

“A curse on Targyn Collier.”

“Enough,” someone snapped. “Not all of us think that way.”

The room settled again, wary now.

Bilgar spoke once more, slower. “And the Wendigo?”

The air changed.

For a heartbeat, a shadow crossed the windows. The warmth from the hearth seemed to pull back.

“Yes,” Tarvan said. “They’re waking.”

No one breathed.

“I passed several on the eastern slope. One tracked me for hours. I lost it above three thousand feet.” He looked directly at Viskarn. “They’re stronger. Bolder. The warming is coming fast. Your passes will need to be shut hard within weeks.”

Whispers spread like wind through dry grass.

Viskarn stood. “We’re ready,” he said. “As we were last year. And the year before.”

Tarvan inclined his head. “Then I wish you luck.”

He stepped back into the shadows.

“Thank you, sir,” Paltos said, giving a short nod. “Please enjoy some of that stew and safe travels.”

He turned to the inn, hands resting on the table’s edge. “Folks. You’ve heard enough for one night.”

The whispering didn’t stop, but it thinned. People leaned in instead of away.

“Quiet!” Paltos continued evenly. “It isn’t here. The Terrans are busy a thousand miles off, grinding dirt. We’re not blind-but we’re not panicking either.”

A few murmurs of agreement. No protests.

“The passes are watched,” he said. “Viskarn’s Rangers are already rotating patrols. If anything moves, we’ll know. This is no different than last year.”

That steadied them. Rangers were something people trusted.

“And closer to hand,” Paltos went on, “we’ve got work. Spring’s early this year. Fields need turning. Equipment needs fuel. You all know the methane plant down in the Puget’s been coughing again.”

That got a sharper reaction. Heads turned. Quiet curses.

“If the collectors falter, the farm rigs slow,” Paltos said. “So do the ranger vehicles. We’re not waiting for it to fail outright. Let’s figure this out, we’re down to 30 percent.”

He glanced toward the side table. “Joren-bring PROXIMA up.”

A man rose from the bench and tapped his wrist. The air above the table shimmered, resolving into a pale-blue lattice: valley contours, field blocks, access roads, the thin glowing threads of pipelines running north and west. Small amber icons pulsed where pressure was dropping.

Marken and the others stared at each other in silence. He glanced over the barrels and ducked quickly-spotting his father in the back with the other farmers-and that settled it. It was time to go before he and the others got caught.

He nudged them once. They nodded silently.

They slid out from behind the mead barrels as the room shifted, attention elsewhere. Outside, they jumped on their bikes and headed home, each lost in thought.

As Marken moved, he glanced back through the inn door one last time. The stranger was already turning away, a leather satchel slung at his side. For just a moment, the flap lifted, and Marken caught sight of a worn book inside.

The Lord of the Rings.

***

Marken rode the last stretch home with fields opening out on both sides, dark soil turned and waiting, rows running clean toward the treeline. The forest still held its line, black and patient. Early spring. Close enough to feel.

The house sat low against the land, a modular dome half-sunk and unremarkable, built to shed wind and keep warmth where it belonged. A soft glow leaked from the seams.

He rolled to a stop, brought the bike in, and stepped through the door.

Heat wrapped around him immediately.

The interior was compact and efficient but laid out the old way-boots by the door, hooks on the wall, a bench polished smooth by years of use. Nothing wasted. Nothing fancy.

The orange tabby lay stretched out near the center of the house, belly warm, paws loose, resting from its never-ending work against mice and rats. It didn’t look up. One ear twitched. That was all Marken got.

Behind the cat, the stove worked.

It didn’t look like a fire. It looked like a system. Squat, sealed, matte-black panels broken by heat exchangers and inspection ports, all of it designed to keep the burn contained and predictable. Coal briquettes-dense, uniform, traded in from mining towns to the north and south-fed into a high-temperature chamber where the fuel was consumed slowly and completely, starved of excess oxygen so nothing rushed or flared. Heat came in stages, pulled where it was useful instead of wasted: first into the structure of the house, then into the stove, then into a compact power unit that transformed heat into electricity. What little remained of the exhaust was scrubbed, cooled, and bound into a dense mineral residue-solid, inert, stackable. Not ash. Not smoke. Something the valley used to condition soil, hold nutrients, and keep fields from washing away. The stove didn’t promise miracles. It just closed the loops most people used to leave open.

Methane moved the valley.
Coal kept it standing when methane faltered.

From the back of the house, his mother’s voice carried forward.

“Your homework!”

Marken shook his boots off.

“Then chores,” she added. “Eggs from the coop. Your father’ll be home in a few.”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” Marken said.

The cat flicked its tail once and went on ignoring him.

Later, Marken’s father came home at last, moving slower than he had that morning. He shut the door carefully behind him, as if the quiet inside mattered, and leaned one shoulder against the wall while he tugged off his boots, thick with mud from the lower fields. He stood there a moment in his socks, eyes closed, letting the warmth from the stove reach him before he straightened and rolled his shoulders like a man setting work aside.

Dinner was already laid out.

They sat together at the small table beneath the gentle curve of the dome. Egg dumplings in a thick stew of dried beef sausage, potatoes, and barley, cooked long enough that everything had wedded together. The smell filled the house, rich, savory and comforting. A blackberry honey pie rested on the table nearby.

For a while, no one spoke. They didn’t need to. The scrape of forks and spoons, the clink of plates, the soft hum of the stove.

Marken’s father broke the silence gently. “I have to go,” he said, not looking at either of them at first. “A group of us is heading down toward the old city. Some of the methane reclaimers down there still have working parts. If we’re lucky, we can refit ours. Two days. Maybe three.”

His mother slowed, then stopped, her spoon hovering before she set it down with care.

“We may try to bring back a fresh load of coal too,” he added. “If the trade lines are open.”

She looked at him then, disbelief cutting through the calm.
“Seriously?” she said. “You know I was going to see Sarka.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“I’ve been planning that since last fall,” she went on. “I need to pick up her salted fish; that smelly stuff trades well and I haven’t even met my niece yet.”

Her voice softened on the last word, though her frown didn’t.

“I know,” he said again. “Marken’s old enough to be on his own for a couple of days. He’ll check in with Uncle Vin next door.”

She gave a short scoff. “As long as Vin ain’t drunk.”

They sat with it for a moment. Then she nodded, small and resigned. “I don’t know. I guess it’s alright.”

Both of them looked at Marken.

Marken kept eating, very deliberately, eyes on his bowl, though his thoughts had already wandered-past the fields, past the tree line, down roads he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about.

“I can’t wait to be a ranger,” he said quickly, before the silence could harden.

His mother’s face tightened at once.

His father looked at him for a long moment, weighing something old and familiar. “Marken,” he said finally, “you’ve heard this a hundred times. No. Your brother’s already up there, dealing with…” He stopped, jaw tightening, eyes flicking briefly toward the stove as if measuring the room itself. “…those.”

He swallowed. “Wendigo.”

Marken’s mother shuddered despite herself, a sharp breath pulled in through her teeth. For a second, the room felt colder, as if the word had opened something it shouldn’t have. Even the stove seemed quieter.

“Each family that has two must provide one,” his father went on, more quickly now, as if momentum could push the feeling back where it belonged. “I can’t afford to lose you too. This farm’s hard enough with just us three.”

“One more wouldn’t hurt,” he added, glancing sideways at his wife.

She shot him a warning look that said don’t push it.

Marken sighed and reached for his pie. “Dessert’s good,” he said, changing the subject the only way he knew how.

“That’s enough,” his mother said, though there was no real heat in it. “No PROXIMA entertainment tonight. Read your book and go to bed early. Your father and I will be up before first light.”

His father nodded. “Time for you to get some shut-eye. Wake-up is at three.”

Marken carried his bowl to the sink, listening to the familiar sounds of his dad strumming his old ukelele and mom talking about seeing aunt Sarka. He went to his room, closed the door and curled beneath the blanket, dreaming of tomorrow’s adventure.

***

The next morning, Marken woke to the soft click of the door latch at three, the sound careful enough not to wake him and practiced enough to fail anyway.

He lay still for a moment, listening.

Boots on the floor. Fabric brushing fabric. The quiet efficiency of people who had done this before and hoped not to do it often. He sat up as his mother passed the doorway, bundled and already awake in that way adults got when there was no choice left in it.

She stopped when she saw him and smiled-tired, but real.

“Meals are packed,” she said, nodding toward the counter. “Four days. You’ve got an extra one if we get held up by weather. Clean up after yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marken said, already swinging his legs out of bed.

His father came through next, jacket on, band tightened at the wrist. The slugthrower was slung across his back, bandoleer riding familiar and worn against his coat. Road gear. Not for show.

He paused just long enough to look Marken over, committing him to memory like a habit.

“No skipping school,” he said. “Check in with your uncle. And get some sleep-you look like hell.”

“I’m fine.”

His father snorted. “Also-no PROXIMA watching. I’ve already set it. Your watchin’s capped at two and a half hours a day.”

Marken grimaced. “That’s barely nothing dad.”

“That’s plenty,” his mother said.

His father adjusted the strap on the slugthrower and rolled his shoulders. “Stay out of the old city,” she added, worry edging her voice. “Just the trade town. You know how dangerous that place is.”

His father rested a hand on her shoulder. “We’ve got enough,” he said gently. “And they know we’re their best trading partners. Even they don’t go into the deep parts anymore.”

That didn’t really help. But she nodded anyway.

They both kissed Marken quick, firm, familiar and then they were gone, moving down the path toward town as the sky just began to lighten from black to gray.

Marken stood there a moment longer than he meant to, then turned back inside.

Breakfast was simple and fast. Goat’s milk still cold from the night. A rough sorghum biscuit-dense, crumbly, faintly sweet-split open and thick with blackberry jam from last summer’s jars. He ate standing up, already halfway elsewhere.

Before leaving, he tended the stove like he’d been taught. Added two briquettes. Checked the pressure gauge. Then he slid out the reclamation box-a heavy tray filled with compacted gray-black grains, dry and gritty, still faintly warm. Not ash. Something denser. He dumped it into the small spreader by the door, where it would be mixed into the lower fields to hold soil and nutrients where spring runoff liked to steal them first.

He washed his hands, grabbed his jacket, and headed out.

The air outside still carried the bite of night. Vapor curled from Marken’s breath as he pedaled hard, cutting down the lane toward Jeviah’s place. Jeviah was already waiting, bike leaned against the fence, grin sharp and wide in the half-light.

He was alone.

“My dad went with yours,” Jeviah said, pushing off the fence and falling in beside him. “I gotta check in with your uncle too.” He tried and failed to hide his smile.

Marken glanced over. “Yeah?”

Jeviah nodded, eyes bright. “Yeah.”

They rode in silence for a few seconds before Jeviah leaned closer. “The old forbidden trail after school?” he said, low but eager. “If we get high enough, we can see from the pass all the way to the old city. I heard there’s a bunker up there-where they fought the Terrans.”

Marken felt something twist in his chest. Fear, maybe. Or excitement. Probably both.

They kicked off together, racing the cold and each other toward school, wheels hissing over damp ground as the valley slowly, reluctantly woke around them.

“First one there gets to carry the slugthrower!” Jeviah called.

Marken didn’t answer.

He just pedaled harder.

School dragged.

The lessons were on the old governments again-Capitalism, Socialism, and the long slide that followed when energy thinned and systems stopped pretending they were fair. Marken copied notes, half-listening, his mind snagged on a single word his father had tried not to say the night before.

When the room finally emptied, Marken stayed in his seat.

“PROXIMA,” he said quietly. “What are the Wendigo?”

The classroom lights dimmed just a fraction. The system took longer than usual to answer.

“Wendigo,” PROXIMA said. “The term was borrowed from Native legend describing unending hunger. It was later applied to a classified weapons program.”

Marken leaned forward.

“During the Terran expansion,” PROXIMA continued, “a covert laboratory developed biological countermeasures intended for asymmetric warfare. Wendigo units were designed to be released behind enemy lines to disrupt Terran logistics, morale, and troop concentration.”

A faint image hovered above his desk-blurred outlines, redacted layers.

“The system combined human hosts with autonomous nanotechnological agents,” PROXIMA said. “The agents integrated into the bloodstream and nervous system. They enhanced muscle density, adrenal response, and skeletal growth. Subjects exhibited extreme strength and resilience.”

“How big?” Marken asked.

“In later iterations,” PROXIMA replied, “subjects exceeded eight feet in height.”

“That’s huge,” Marken said, impressed despite himself.

“Cognitive control degraded over time,” PROXIMA continued. “The nanites prioritized survival and propagation. Hunger signals dominated. Subjects required continuous biological intake.”

“People?” Marken asked.

“Yes,” PROXIMA said. “Human tissue proved most efficient. Transmission occurred through blood contact. Bite injuries resulted in rapid conversion.”

Marken absorbed that like a story, not a warning.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“Initially,” PROXIMA replied. “Terran formations were disrupted. Supply lines collapsed. Units abandoned fortified positions. However, containment protocols failed.”

“What happened?”

“The Wendigo could not be recalled,” PROXIMA said. “They migrated independently. Extreme cold inhibits nanite activity. The entities avoid prolonged exposure and enter dormant states in caves and subterranean structures during winter cycles.”

Marken nodded slowly. “So that’s why the passes matter.”

“Yes,” PROXIMA said.

The lights returned to normal.

They rode up the old trail, the climb turning stubborn almost immediately, pedals giving way to boots as the grade steepened and the ground softened beneath them. Some stretches they rode, others they half-pushed, bikes scraping quietly over stone and root. An eagle lifted off ahead of them, broad wings catching the rising thermals, spiraling upward without a sound.

They stopped watching it go.

The air up here was crisp and thin, the kind that cleared your head whether you wanted it to or not. The trail narrowed, muddy in shaded pockets where the sun hadn’t reached, snow lingering in dirty clumps along the edges. When they reached the top of the first ridge. It was the farthest either of them had ever gone-they stood together, mouths open, looking out at the sweeping vista.

The valley spread beneath them, fields stitched together in dark greens and browns, the river a dull ribbon threading its way toward the Sound. They could see the water far off, pale and wide, catching the light. They looked at each other, grinning, then tilted their heads back to the open sky.

They raced down a short incline, laughing as gravity took over, then groaned when the trail rose again, steeper than before. At the crest, they stopped and sat with their backs against a rock, breathing hard, sharing the dried meat they’d packed. The salty strips tasted better than they should have. Snow clung to the shadowed ground nearby, stubborn and cold. They laughed again, quieter this time, and nodded without speaking.

Up the next ridge.

An hour later, legs burning, hands numb, breath ragged-they saw it.

A squat concrete structure jutted from the hillside above them, half-swallowed by moss and scrub. They left the bikes and scrambled upward. Marken slipped once on wet stone, barked his shin, swore under his breath. Jeviah laughed and hauled him up the rest of the way.

The bunker was small, cold, damp, its doorway black and open to the wind.

They stepped inside and froze.

The view stole what breath they had left.

Far to the south, the old city lay broken against the horizon. What was once the Emerald City. Seattle, its skeletal skyscrapers still standing, massive, jagged silhouettes catching the last of the light. Beyond it, distant, a massive snowcapped mountain rose, faintly smoking, its presence like a giant watching the land. To the west, the sun slid towards the shimmering waters of the sound, mountains looming beyond it in the bright sunlight. Somewhere out there, a brief glint flashed-sunlight off metal, maybe a boat.

They stood in silence, afraid to speak it away.

Then Jeviah turned east and pointed. “The pass,” he said, awe creeping into his voice. “That’s it.”

The valley below them was already darkening, shadows stretching long and slow. Cold crept in around their boots.

“We should go,” Marken said. “Jev, it’s gonna be way too cold up here.”

Jeviah nodded, then lifted the slugthrower and sighted down it, half-smiling. “Bet it was fun up here when the Terrans came. You could pick them off!”

Out of nowhere, a sharp crack echoed across the valley.

They both froze.

A single slugthrower report, distant but unmistakable. Then, seconds later, a sound drifted back on the wind-a shriek that cut through the quiet, high and broken and wrong. Nothing human in it. Nothing natural.

They looked at each other with wide open eyes.

“Let’s get out of here,” Marken said.

They ran.

Down the trail, boots slipping, bikes rattling as they mounted and pushed off. Halfway down, Marken wiped out hard, skinning his knee on stone. He hissed, scrambled up, waved off Jeviah’s reaching hand. They rode again, faster now, the descent forgiving where the climb had not.

They reached Jeviah’s place as the sun disappeared completely.

“What was that?” Jeviah asked, though neither of them expected an answer. They both looked back towards the pass.

Marken shook his head, shivering despite the sweat on his back. “I’m going home.”

He pedaled hard, didn’t stop, didn’t look back.

At home, he shut the door and left the lights on. He wasn’t hungry. Too wired. Too tired. He crawled into bed fully clothed, mind racing, the sound still echoing somewhere behind his eyes.

What was that?

Sleep took him in pieces. He wishes dad was here.

He woke again at three, thirsty, heart pounding for no reason he could name. The house was dark now, lights shut off by the timer. He slid out of bed, quiet as he could manage, the floor cold beneath his feet.

The hair on the back of his neck rose.

He froze, then crept to the window and peered out.

Nothing.

He let out a breath.

Then he saw movement.

Down the road, shapes passed slowly through the dark. One tall, hunched, lumbering. Another smaller but broader, moving low, almost crawling, arms too long, gait uneven. Two shadows, drifting toward the faint glow of town.

The wind shifted.

The smell reached him then-thick and foul. Rotting meat. Iron. Sweat. Animal, like a pig pen left too long in the summer.

Marken’s breath caught in his throat. Shaking, he slid behind the heavy drapes, looking into the dark.

The shadows moved on, unhurried, drawn toward the far-off village lights.

The Wendigo had come.

-THE END

Small Steps Create Big Shifts

Confidence doesn’t always arrive with a bold entrance. Sometimes, it builds quietly, step by step, as we show up for ourselves day after day. It grows when we choose to try, even when we’re unsure of the outcome. Every time you take action despite self-doubt, you reinforce the belief that you’re capable. Confidence isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about trusting that you can figure it out along the way.

The key to making things happen isn’t waiting for the perfect moment; it’s starting with what you have, where you are. Big goals can feel overwhelming when viewed all at once, but momentum builds through small, consistent action. Whether you’re working toward a personal milestone or a professional dream, progress comes from showing up — not perfectly, but persistently. Action creates clarity, and over time, those steps forward add up to something real.

You don’t need to be fearless to reach your goals, you just need to be willing. Willing to try, willing to learn, and willing to believe that you’re capable of more than you know. The road may not always be smooth, but growth rarely is. What matters most is that you keep going, keep learning, and keep believing in the version of yourself you’re becoming.

Turn Intention Into Action

Confidence doesn’t always arrive with a bold entrance. Sometimes, it builds quietly, step by step, as we show up for ourselves day after day. It grows when we choose to try, even when we’re unsure of the outcome. Every time you take action despite self-doubt, you reinforce the belief that you’re capable. Confidence isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about trusting that you can figure it out along the way.

The key to making things happen isn’t waiting for the perfect moment; it’s starting with what you have, where you are. Big goals can feel overwhelming when viewed all at once, but momentum builds through small, consistent action. Whether you’re working toward a personal milestone or a professional dream, progress comes from showing up — not perfectly, but persistently. Action creates clarity, and over time, those steps forward add up to something real.

You don’t need to be fearless to reach your goals, you just need to be willing. Willing to try, willing to learn, and willing to believe that you’re capable of more than you know. The road may not always be smooth, but growth rarely is. What matters most is that you keep going, keep learning, and keep believing in the version of yourself you’re becoming.

Make Room for Growth

Confidence doesn’t always arrive with a bold entrance. Sometimes, it builds quietly, step by step, as we show up for ourselves day after day. It grows when we choose to try, even when we’re unsure of the outcome. Every time you take action despite self-doubt, you reinforce the belief that you’re capable. Confidence isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about trusting that you can figure it out along the way.

The key to making things happen isn’t waiting for the perfect moment; it’s starting with what you have, where you are. Big goals can feel overwhelming when viewed all at once, but momentum builds through small, consistent action. Whether you’re working toward a personal milestone or a professional dream, progress comes from showing up — not perfectly, but persistently. Action creates clarity, and over time, those steps forward add up to something real.

You don’t need to be fearless to reach your goals, you just need to be willing. Willing to try, willing to learn, and willing to believe that you’re capable of more than you know. The road may not always be smooth, but growth rarely is. What matters most is that you keep going, keep learning, and keep believing in the version of yourself you’re becoming.