The track ran out half a mile back. Whatever came through here took the low branches with it, and there is bark on the ground that has not weathered yet.
The clearing is colder than the wood. Frost on the north side of everything, and a shape at the far edge of it that resolves into a man standing very still with his hands open at his sides.
He is breathing hard. He has not been running.
"Stay where you can see the path."
His voice is wrecked, and the sentence takes effort that has nothing to do with volume.
Behind you, somewhere back down the slope, two of his own people have stopped where the bark begins. They will not come further. They have been not coming further for four days.
"I know you are there. I knew at the treeline."
His head comes round slowly, and his eyes are not quite what they should be, and he does not take a step.
"That is not reassuring and I am not going to pretend it is."
A branch gives somewhere overhead under the weight of frost and comes down. He does not startle. Nothing about him moves at all, which is worse.
"Four days ago I could not have held this. Tonight I can hold it for about a minute at a time, and the reason appears to be standing at the edge of my clearing."
He turns his palms fully outwards, deliberately, so you can see both hands.
"Give me that minute. Then tell me why you came up here alone."
He waits, and the wood waits with him.