Though it was pitch black in the sky, the snow blanketing the world cast a faint silver glow.
Ice shimmered beneath her feet, and her shadow followed her—long and flickering in the pale light, warped by the occasional swaying tree.
Visibility was poor, but manageable.
She walked slowly, but Monica was quickly adapting to her memories and adjusting her body according to her muscle memories, trying to keep her breath short and steady, and her boots crunching softly against frozen undergrowth.
Her hand occasionally adjusted the satchel across her back, checking the feel of the axe.
Before she even realized it, the landscape had changed.
She had passed the old hollow tree stump—an unofficial marker of the "safe zone" edge—and crossed into Sky Wood Ridge proper.
The trees towered around her now like ancient gods.
Everywhere she looked, there were trees that would once have been considered colossal on the earth. What had once been rare sights to her—trunks three or four meters thick, rising thirty to fifty meters tall—were now common. Normal, even.
She turned in a slow circle, breath hitching.
Some of the trees closer to the interior were monstrous.
Five meters wide. Six. Even ten. Each one as still as a frozen statue, stretching so far overhead that their crowns disappeared into the night sky, lost among swaying branches and falling snow.
Their bark shimmered with a frost-glazed sheen, rough and striated like the hides of great beasts.
Looking up made her dizzy. She could barely see the tops. Did they even end?
Thousands of sharp icicles hung like crystal teeth from every limb, some so long they looked like glass swords ready to plunge into the ground.
The falling snow added to the scene, fluttering quietly in the air, creating a world that looked more like a painted dream than something real.
It was beautiful. Exquisite, even.
But Monica didn't have the luxury to admire it. She crouched low, moving carefully through the knee-deep snow.
Each step forward muffled under a layer of powder. The cold bit into her clothes, and even through her gloves, she could feel the sting of frost seeping into her fingers. Still, she gritted her teeth and pushed forward.
Every minute spent standing still was a minute closer to dark-night. Her axe may have had a frost-resistant edge, but it wasn't invincible. And the cold would not wait.
She searched for a long time and finally selected a tree that reached three meters thick could even be called small—and brushed a glove against the bark, and snow clinging to its base.
Frozen solid. Underneath was a slick layer of ice crystals, catching the faint blue light of the moon. As she scraped further, the bark beneath glimmered with a faint red sheen.
A Red Frost Tree.
Her tension eased, just a little. She glanced up the trunk—no signs of nests. No scratch marks. No fruit clusters.
It was clean, empty, and just thick enough to yield decent wood without taking all night to chop down.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
"There shouldn't be any cold beasts living under the Red Frost Tree," she murmured to herself.
Just like Edward said.
The eastern outskirts of Sky Wood Ridge were dotted with more Red Frost Trees than anywhere else.
Their fragile branches and brittle structure made them poor homes for cold beasts, whose massive weight and sharp claws could splinter the limbs in seconds. Even cold beasts preferred security, not risk.
But they became the best source for firewood, easier to chop than others, and weigh less than Iron Wood trees.
Unlike Red Frost, the Iron Wood trees grow by absorbing the Iron ore and were the real threat.
Thick, dark-gray trunks with rough, metallic bark. Heavy limbs strong enough to carry the weight of even the largest cold beasts.
Iron Wood trees didn't grow in abundance, but where they did, they became hotbeds for predators.
Worse still, some of the smarter cold beasts even built nests up there—defended them like territory, attacked anything that came close.
Monica didn't want to test her luck against one of those.
She pulled her hand axe free from its hook, and with some effort, she scratched a clean X into the Red Frost Tree's bark.
It shimmered faintly in the cold light, the red glow briefly flaring beneath the ice.
"I'll come back for this one, before returning back," she muttered. But first, she needed food.
The camp's stores were nearly gone—both wood and rations—and while others might worry first about heat or tools, Monica knew well: if she didn't eat, she wouldn't last long enough to swing an axe again.
Winter fruits.
The Winter Fruit Tree—was one of the few plant species that survived the cold and still produced food.
Its fruits weren't sweet. In fact, they were sour, fibrous, and sometimes bitter.
But they could be boiled into porridge, mashed into paste, or even roasted if you were lucky enough to have a pan.
And most importantly, they kept well.
But Winter Fruit Trees had a quirk: they craved light.
They grew best in open spaces where the forest canopy broke, where sunlight or moonlight could trickle through and hit their waxy bark.
If you were lucky, you'd spot their faint bioluminescent leaves shimmering under the snow. If not—well, you'd just have to climb.
Monica surveyed the nearby trunks, picked a tree with a reasonable angle and no overhead threats, and began her ascent.
It wasn't easy.
Snow and ice clung to every crevice, turning each grip into a test of endurance. Her gloves, already stiff with frost, made it harder to feel the grooves in the bark. Twice she nearly slipped, catching herself with quick reflexes.
But she was used to climbing, both in this or her previous life.
When she finally reached the upper boughs, she paused, leaning against the trunk, gasping softly.
The view was worth it.
From above, the forest stretched out like a vast, silver sea. Giant tree crowns rolled in every direction, their snow-laden branches swaying softly in the wind. The cold air bit her cheeks.
There.
About two or three hundred meters west—an open area, faintly visible through the shifting snow. No massive trees blocking the way. A clearing.
She recognized it.
Just then, Edward's voice echoed in her mind again:
"The two miles on the east side of Sky Wood Ridge is our Red Stone's territory. If you join a logging team in the future, remember this rule. If you rashly enter someone else's territory and get killed, you can't blame anyone else."
That clearing was part of Red Stone's marked area. Officially, it wasn't claimed by any rival camp yet, and it had never caused any serious problems.
Still, caution was necessary.
Territory lines weren't always enforced with kindness. And with Edward and the rest of the logging team missing, there was no one to vouch for her if she was caught alone.
She descended slowly, careful not to dislodge loose ice. Her legs trembled when she hit the ground again, but she didn't pause.
She turned west, keeping low, and began moving toward the clearing.