The snow came early that year.
Thick, heavy, merciless.
Bran was hunting alone when he heard the scream — sharp, wild, tearing across the frozen pines like a hawk’s cry.
He found her near the river bend, cornered against a cliff by a starving bear.
She was not like the others — smaller, thick dark hair falling wild down her back, heavy-browed but with fierce, bright eyes that locked onto Bran’s with a startling plea.
A Neanderthal — one of the forest people.
One he should have feared or avoided.
But when the bear lunged, Bran didn’t think.
He hurled his spear, shouting, charging, heart hammering like a drum.
The spear found the bear’s throat, a lucky, desperate strike. The beast roared once, staggered, collapsed.
Then there was only silence.
And the girl.
Shivering, bleeding from a shallow cut on her shoulder, still clutching a rough stone blade.
Bran approached slowly, hand out, voice low.
She did not run.
Instead, she stared at him with wonder and something else — something hot, heavy, and ancient between them.
He led her to a cave nearby, a hollow in the cliffs where he sometimes took shelter.
There, he built a fire. She watched him with wide eyes, as if he were a magician.
As the warmth grew, her shaking stopped.
She crawled close to him, close enough that he could smell the wild, musky scent of her — earth and smoke and living things.
Close enough that he could see the rise and fall of her chest, the scars on her arms, the curious tilt of her mouth.
She touched his face — tentative, rough fingers brushing the stubble of his jaw.
Bran froze.
Then he cupped her hand in his, bringing it to his lips.
A low sound escaped her throat — not a word, not quite — but full of need.
Raw, human need.
Their mouths met awkwardly at first, clumsy and urgent, mouths sliding, teeth grazing.
She pulled at his tunic; he tore at the furs wrapped around her shoulders.
Soon they were bare, skin to skin, under the flickering shadows of firelight.
Her body was strong and soft all at once — broad-hipped, thick-thighed, a fertile, feral goddess.
He kissed the hollow of her throat, the curve of her breast, the hard line of her stomach. She arched against him, making small, eager sounds that stirred his blood hotter than any fire.
When he entered her, it was slow — a tight, molten joining, both of them gasping, clawing at each other, hips grinding in the primitive rhythm older than language.
The cave filled with their cries, their panting, the slap of flesh on flesh.
Snow fell outside, silent and endless, as they created their own small universe of heat and breath and raw, unstoppable life.
When the frenzy broke, they collapsed together, tangled and panting, her head on his chest.
Bran stared up at the stone ceiling, heart pounding, and for the first time he wondered:
Maybe the world didn’t belong to one kind or another.
Maybe it belonged to anyone brave enough to love across the old lines drawn by blood and fear.
He held her tighter as the fire crackled, and outside, the stars spun cold and endless above the sleeping earth.