The cut wasn't wide. Just a seam in the hill, half-swallowed by snow. Sloped down at a shallow angle. Sparse brush on the rim. Broken stone. Some moss. No tracks.
He stepped in.
Boots slipped once. Loose gravel under the crust of frost. He caught the ridge wall with one hand. Glove scraped. Didn't tear.
No wind down here.
Quiet.
He moved slower now. Left hand brushing the stone. Right on the grip of the blade. Dull iron, but weighty. Comfort more than defense.
The cut dipped another few feet, then leveled out. A shelf of flat stone hugged the far side. Low ceiling above. Old tree roots split the wall near the top. Dead vines.
He waited there. Still. Listening.
Nothing but the shift of snow behind him.
He crouched. Pack slipped off with a soft pull. Laid it beside him. Fingers checked the seams.
Tight. No holes.
He opened it. Bread, wrapped. Dried meat. Roots. Flasks sealed with waxed string.
He didn't eat. Just counted.
Then slid the pack shut again.
Waited.
