The morning air was thick with mist, hanging low like a veil between the trees. Mike moved swiftly through it, bow slung across his back, satchel snug at his side, each step taking him farther from town and closer to the old hunting path.
Harold's cabin lay just beyond the northern ridge—a crooked structure built of bark-stained logs, stone, and time. Smoke curled gently from its chimney. The scent of cooking meat drifted through the air, familiar and grounding.
Mike paused at the edge of the clearing.
This might be the last time he saw the only person in his life who felt like a real father.
He knocked softly.
"Come in," Harold's voice called. Gruff but kind.
Mike stepped inside. The warmth hit him instantly—the fire, the herbs strung from the rafters, the rough blankets layered over every surface. Harold stood near the hearth, stirring something thick and brown in a cast iron pot.
"Well," he said without turning. "You're up early. Figured I'd hear from you soon."
Mike hesitated. "How'd you know?"
"You've had the look of someone keeping a secret for a while now." He turned, his face weathered and lined but his eyes sharp as ever. "That, and you didn't touch your stew last time. You always eat like a wolf when something's not on your mind."
Mike smiled faintly. "I need your help. And maybe… your blessing."
Harold raised an eyebrow. "Blessing for what?"
Mike set his journal on the table and opened it to the sketch of the device. Then the bow. Then the strange circle Jake had drawn.
Harold studied them for a long moment without speaking. Then he sat down slowly and let out a breath.
"That's no ordinary cave you found."
"You know about it?" Mike asked, startled.
"I know of places like it. Forgotten places. Sacred ones. Long before our people cut roads and dug mines, there were watchers of the old ways. They built things—tools, gateways, weapons maybe. Depends on who you ask."
Mike's heart beat faster. "You think this is a gateway?"
Harold nodded once. "Could be. Could be worse, too. Those old places don't open for just anyone."
"I didn't open it," Mike said. "It opened for me."
Harold looked at him then—not just at him, but through him. "Then it chose you."
Silence settled between them.
Finally, Harold stood and reached up to a narrow shelf. From it, he pulled a small leather cord strung with a pendant carved from bone. The shape was of a stag's head—delicate and elegant, but powerful.
"This was given to me when I was about your age," Harold said. "By someone who saved my life. It's no magic talisman, but it's kept me alive longer than I deserve."
He stepped forward and placed it around Mike's neck.
"If you see the white stag, follow it. No matter what."
Mike swallowed hard. "Thank you."
Harold clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You're not running from something, are you?"
"No," Mike said. "I'm running toward something. I just don't know what it is yet."
Harold nodded. "Then go. And if you find yourself lost—remember who you are. You're not weak. You're not broken. You're a hunter. You listen, you watch, and you move when the time is right."
Mike didn't hug him. That wasn't their way.
But he looked back one last time before he stepped into the mist.
He wouldn't see Harold again for a long, long time.