Signs of Another Camper in the Wild—What Ragnar Discovers
The wind shifted sometime in the night. By morning, the air smelled faintly of ash.
He packed quickly. His tools, the satchel, a few coals buried in a bark pouch. The modern knife he left strapped to the outside of his pack—he still did not trust it, but it had proven sharp and nimble.
The climb was steady. The ridge rose in layers, broken by outcrops and patches of dry grass. Pine needles littered the slope. His boots slipped once, and he caught himself against a root, the bark biting into his palm. The pain grounded him.
At the summit, the land unfolded. Trees stretched in every direction, but to the north, tucked between two hills, a clearing broke the pattern. Blackened stones, collapsed timber, a fire ring long gone cold—but recent. Maybe a week.
He descended slowly, crouching near the site. Ash still clung to bark. Someone had camped here. No markings, no shields, no bones. The fire had been small, controlled. The stones were stacked deliberately, like a hearth.
He walked the perimeter. Found a bit of fabric, half-buried and hardened with dirt. Not wool. Not leather. Woven too finely. He turned it over in his hands and let it fall. He would not take what he could not use.
By a tree just beyond the camp, he found what he didn’t expect—a whittled stick, its end carved to a fine taper. The work was deliberate, even practiced.
He sat beside it, resting his back against the tree. Someone like him. Or unlike him. Perhaps from this land. Perhaps not.
Ragnar did not call out. He made no noise. Whoever they were, they had left. But the forest felt less empty now.
As the sun dipped lower, he collected fallen wood and rebuilt the fire ring. Not to claim it. But to warm himself.
He placed a stone near the coals and leaned his back against the tree, watching the last orange light catch the ridges.
He would stay here tonight.
