It was early in the morning when Cyri woke Kell. The fire had died late that night and the surface had been tormented with another layer of snow. It left a chill that not even layers upon layers of blankets could stave off. It was dark, as always, and though the windows had been covered with long, heavy carpet, the cold still seeped in anyways.

Kell shivered as they woke, a sight their mentor chuckled at as he shook their shoulder. He was much more suited for this. He was a thick-skinned man, used to living on the surface and working out in the snow, whereas Kell was quicker to succumb to numb fingers and trembling chills. Still, it didn't stop them from following Cyri out into the cold. He shooed them out of bed and into their hunting gear: snow bibs and thick, wooly furs tugged over thermal underthings. They tugged their aviator hat over their messy hair, resolving to tend to it later when they were more awake; after securing their goggles and mask, they were out the door and into the dark.

The moons had yet to be activated for the day, leaving the planet swallowed up in the pitch-black, though Kell's eyes quickly adjusted as they crept over the fresh snow. Cyri had always said they were better in the dark than he, musing on some old wive's tale about Keplans having sharper vision where poor old Jhonians could only stumble about. They weren't certain how true that was; despite that, they believed him, or rather indulged his rumination with an audience willing to listen. Kell was just as much a Jhonian as he, though; their father, they were told, was from Holli, though they had Keplan blood in their veins from old family ties.

As they skulked over the fresh snow, Cyri clutched his rifle close to his chest. It was an old one, his gun from his military days, though nowadays the only service it saw was the occasional hunting trip whenever the snow piled too high to travel to Zomir.

"Near here," he whispered as they went. They stalked along the edge of the forest, where the cedars grew thick and the brush had been flattened by the recent snow. His intuition was right, as a long line of cloven-hoofed tracks led from the woods and into the snowfield. They were fresh. It wasn't far.

He crouched down, and Kell followed, hiding behind a snow-laden thicket. They peered through the sagebrush until Cyri pointed forward. There it stood: the elk, its antlers reaching into the sky, bloody velvet dangling from sharp tines. It stood by the edge of the snowfield just north of them.

Raising its head, it bugled -- a high-pitched, keening cry that rose into the air.

How beautiful it was, Kell thought; its mane was thick with a winter coat that would never shed, and among the snow, its dark brown fur stood out against the endless white. It was alone -- unusual for an elk of its stature -- though it did not seem scared. They admired it for some time, until Cyri's murmuring next to them broke them from their thoughts.

"Tell you what," he whispered, pulling the rifle strap from his shoulders. "You shoot it."

They turned quickly to face him. Cyri pressed the rifle into their hands. It was heavy in their grasp and cold to the touch, even through their thick leather gloves. Clumsily, they wrapped their fingers around the barrel and brought it close. In each metal band, their reflection watched in turn.

Something in their heart twisted. They glanced back up at him, then to the elk.

"You know I'm a terrible shot."

"That's why you practice," he retorted. "You know how to do it."

He took his scarf and lowered it, briefly showing them that big smile he always wore. The wrinkles around the corners of his lips creased; the chip in his tooth gleamed in that lopsided grin. Kell sighed.

They reached into their pocket and pulled a spare cartridge. They'd swiped it on the way out of the cabin, just as they always did, in case Cyri ever ran out. Pulling their mask down, they brought it to their lips and pinched the paper between their teeth, ripping it and spitting it out. The gunpowder inside smelled sulfuric. They poured it into the barrel and tapped it once, then twice for good measure, making sure nothing was left.

The bullet glittered in between their fingers. How tiny it was. It made for a more precise, cleaner kill. How could it take down an elk? How could it kill such a large, sturdy creature?

Kell slipped their questions in right alongside the bullet as they tucked it into the barrel. With shaking hands they removed the ramrod and dropped it into the rifle to tamp the gunpowder down. This, Cyri always stressed, was what scared him the most back when he was in the war; too much movement and a spark could ignite in the gunpowder, and fingers would be lost before one could even realize what happened. Kell imagined him then -- still young, frightened as he lurked in cold forests like this one, clutching his rifle as gunfire soared above him.

When the gun was half-cocked, Kell paused. The air was cold, and even through their mask, their breath fogged, but the metallic tinge of gunpowder still lingered close by. For a moment, they were just as frozen as the snow beneath them; they couldn't move, merely staring at the gun in their hand. It was all a machine, every intricate part, each designed with the intent to kill; like a dagger or a sword, the clean metal glinted with the promise of death. It called for a trophy, pleaded for it; with no other purpose, it had to fulfill what it was created for.

A nudge from Cyri pulled them from their stupor. He took their hand and clasped his own over it, steadying them, and at the same time he placed a handful of percussion caps in their palm. His gaze, as always, was warm and trusting. They jammed the cap in place with their thumb.

The barrel poked through the brush, nosing past leaves like the snout of a wolf as they raised the rifle. The elk lifted its head towards the moons as if in prayer.

Both eyes open, a deep breath out.

A crack erupted across the snowfield. The elk cried in pain as it collapsed.

Smoke poured from the rifle; breathless, Kell waved it away as they lowered the gun to the ground before turning to Cyri -- but they could not celebrate yet. Though it had fallen, the elk had not yet died. Instead, it scrambled back to its feet and limped in a mad dash for the forest.

"Shit," Kell muttered, sighing. It was useless; there was no point in them practicing when food was on the line. "I told you, Cyri, I'm terrible at this."

A terrible shot was something Cyri refused to believe. He shook his head and took hold of Kell's shoulder, rising to his feet with a slow, aching groan as his arthritis spoke for him. Kell followed suit. They offered the rifle back to its owner, but Cyri did not take it. Rather, he urged it back into their hands with that same gleam in his eye -- that convincing sparkle and stubborn sense of hope, which always seemed to convince Kell to do anything.

"Follow it," he said. "We won't have dinner tonight if you don't."

"It's gotta be gone now. There's no way I'd find it."

Cyri shook his head. Placing his hand on their back, he gently nudged them towards the snowfield. His arm reached over their shoulder and pointed towards the empty snow, and dutifully, their gaze followed. Where they had fired at the elk now lay a bright red path. Blood gave away its movements. Kell was meant to seek it out.

So, without a word, they stalked forward, out of the thicket and into the empty expanse.

They crossed the snowfield as quickly as they could, trampling over the icy sheen of frozen snow. With each step, the snow crackled beneath their feet before soon caving in, splitting into plates of pristine ice; so thickly packed was the snow that the ground could not ever fully be reached here. The air was heavy with that unmistakable scent of iron. It led them closer to the brush, the path dipping into the dark, with only a red glow against the dimmed moonlight to guide them.

Kell pushed their way past the brush. Huckleberry bushes crowded their knees and scraped against the fur of their cloak. Every so often, they stopped to untangle themself. With a huff, they pulled their cloak free. They plucked a few from the stem as they went, inspecting them between their fingers. The skin was a deep red, just as vibrant as the trail of blood they followed, so deep and rich it was almost black. They imagined the tart twinge of huckleberry on their tongue.

They plucked more and more, shoving them into their breast pocket, right over their heart. Under the dimmed moonlight, the huckleberries glittered like rubies in their palm.

A distant, wailing cry brought them back to their senses. The elk was close now. It couldn't make it very far with a wound like that; though Kell had failed a vital kill, they still did enough damage to ensure its death would come soon.

Deeper and deeper they trekked. The blood was growing heavier. They passed ruins of old villages. Crumbling foundations and frozen cisterns were all that remained of cities that were never quite bustling. They were always rather silent and small, these towns, even when the sun still shined. It would be easy to imagine some great, tragic past that had rendered the landscape and its people to nothing more than a memory, but nothing on Kepla was great. Nothing here had beauty in its suffering. No, it was merely death, waiting in white instead of black. When the sun left, so did the people. What remained was destroyed in the war.

It wasn't long until they finally saw it: that elk, brown fur drenched in red. Despite the garish wound on its shoulder, it held its head high even as it wept. The antlers upon its head, dripping with shedding velvet, reached up in a spindly prayer. It saw Kell the same time they saw it, and in silence, the two acknowledged each other. The elk's head dipped forward, a sad, pained snort sending clouds of warm air from its snout. Kell nodded in return.

Perhaps the elk was the only beautiful thing here; even as it writhed, it had a softness, a holiness that could not be shaken. The goddesses could eat the sun and drown their children in the dark, but the elk would remain unshaken. It was a sacrifice, beautiful and pure, and Kell was the killing blow.

The rip of the cartridge paper did not stir it to flee, nor did the tick, tick, tick of the ramrod stuffing the gunpowder into the barrel. They stepped closer, clambering up the bank of snow that separated them and their prize. Rising up, they aimed their gun once more --

"Gah!"

-- only to tumble down into a ditch.

They landed face-first into the ground. A sharp, red-hot pain bloomed within them. It crackled through their bones as they laid still. The snow was cold and wet against their body, despite the layers they'd put on. It smeared against the lenses of their goggles and speckled their dark hair.

They shook off the snow and the embarrassment with a weak, frustrated groan. However, as they gazed down, they found a bright splatter of red.

They whispered a curse as their hand rose to their nose first, checking to see if it was broken; then, their teeth, though all were accounted for, neat in a row; until finally, their hand patted their chest, where the huckleberries were all smashed into paste at their chest. They sighed as it oozed onto their glove.

But as their eyes blinked, they caught sight of the ground below, where the huckleberries stained the snow red. They crouched down to pick up a few that hadn't been smashed, only to freeze when their fingers grazed against an uneven patch of ground.

Strange, Kell thought. Ditches like these weren't quite so common, especially in the orderly manner it was in. Kneeling down, they brushed the snow aside, but as soon as they did, they froze.

A hand stuck out from the snow. The knuckles were gnarled and bony, nails chipped -- some missing entirely -- from some sort of desperate clawing. The snow and wind had frozen the body solid; it had rendered the skin leathery and tanned like an animal hide. They could see an emblem on the sleeve, and after swiping more snow aside, they recognized the emblem immediately. The Jhonian military.

A dead body. A soldier, here, in the middle of the desolate, empty surface.

As they brushed back more snow, more of the body became exposed, then another, then another.

It was a pile of them. A pile of soldiers still awaiting a mass burial, yet they had never been fully put to rest. Kell scrambled back until they pressed against the edge of the ditch, where rows of boots stood, awaiting marching orders. They breathed heavily, in and out, trying to calm their racing heart. They were long dead, the soldiers, but that did not calm them in the slightest.

They were Jhonians, just as much as Kell, just as much as Cyri. They could've come from Holli or Oriwell or Kalrek, from the patchwork farms and flowing rivers and bright cities. Their own kind was left here to die -- and even then, they had no forgiveness from the earth. The snow kept them frozen, mummified. Not even animals had gotten to them. They still had their guns, their knives, their magazines.

There was no battle here for them.

The elk bugled, as if crying out its shock and horror, pulling Kell from their vigil. Snapping their head up, Kell met its eyes. It snorted a breath of hot air. They couldn't shoot it here, they realized; such close proximity would destroy the precious meat and its pristine coat.

They were no hunter. They'd warned Cyri of that much. Even without a gun, they couldn't do anything but watch the elk sit with its pain.

Leaning forward, Kell climbed over the body and patted their belt. They grabbed the handle of a combat knife and pulled it from its sheath. The knife was rusted brown, whether from snow or blood, they could not say for certain. They stumbled over the bodies and crawled out of the ditch, abandoning the soldiers without glancing back. The elk watched in silence.

Kell kneeled. In the early morning light, they could see the moons reflecting in its eyes. It was beautiful.

They stabbed the elk in the chest. It cried once, and then fell silent.