We can only see them when the lake freezes over, when the ice is clear enough to see all the bones they hoard over the summer months to line their many nests. These are the only months when we are finally able to cross to the mainland for trade without it being completely suicidal.
In the first few frozen weeks they slither around the depths, sunlight barely able to glean off their scales and the skins taken from their prey. Sometimes if I stare for long enough I can see the one who wears my father's tattooed back around its left forearm and we lock eyes once more, as is our tradition.
I know that one day I'll either find a way to kill them or my own child will find my tattooed skin beside their grandfather's and know I died well. Until then I'll join the others and walk over the thickest parts of the ice, always staring down at them while they circle closer and closer to the surface, claws scraping for weak spots.
I have a good feeling about this winter for once.
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