"Something ain’t right," Elias muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. He sat beside a flickering makeshift fire, the weak flames struggling against the encroaching darkness. The flames danced feebly, casting restless shadows against the twisted pines and jagged rocks of the Bandy Mountains. Far from the warm glow of Ashford Heath, the wilderness stretched in all directions—silent, vast, and watching.


    Beside him, Deg let out a low growl, his silvered coat bristling. The old wolf’s ears were pricked, his body tense, his instincts echoing the unease that had settled in Elias’s bones since sundown.


    The moon hung low, pale and distant, its dim light revealing a forest that no longer felt like his own.


    Elias had spent his entire life in these woods. Raised in a cabin far from civilization, his education had come not from books but from nature itself. He had learned how to listen—to the wind, to the shifting leaves, to all the tells that nature offered.


    When war came, he enlisted, but he was too wild to be tamed. His temper and manners had nearly gotten him killed more than once—sometimes by the enemy, sometimes by his own men. The politicos back at the Citadel had considered cutting him loose more than once, but a sharp-eyed officer recognized his worth and did the only sensible thing: left Elias to do what he did best.


    Track. Hunt. Scout.


    As a scout, Elias earned a reputation for being as fearless as he was reckless. Where others hesitated, he moved. Where others debated, he decided. His commanding officer had once remarked, “I can’t tell if Elias is the bravest man I’ve ever met or just too damn stupid to know when to run.”


    A backhanded compliment, perhaps, but to Elias, it was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said about him. And he took it to heart.


    When the war ended, he returned to the only life he knew, vanishing into the mountains where the world made sense. He built a home as far from people as possible, and he kept it that way. He never married and never wanted to. Life was simpler alone—hunting game, skinning pelts, living by his own rules.


    A few times a year, he ventured into town to sell his wares, buy a woman, and drink himself full. When the money ran out, he went back to the woods, back to the silence, back to nights spent speaking to the fire and his wolf curled beside him.


    It was a good life. A quiet life.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    Until now.


    For days, the forest had felt wrong. Game was scarce, tracks led nowhere, and something had begun hunting where nothing should. That’s what had driven him deeper into the wild than ever before. Armed with his bow, a hunter’s axe, and a fresh batch of arrowheads from Robert’s forge, he had set out to rid his woods of whatever was disturbing his home.


    The hunt had been unlike any he had ever known. The signs were erratic—broken branches high above, unnatural scorch marks, a scent that sent Deg into a silent, snarling rage. The usual methods—tracking, trapping, reading the land—had failed him. The deeper he went, the heavier the woods seemed to grow, as if the trees themselves whispered warnings he could not understand.


    Then, on the third night, he found it.


    Or rather, what was left of it.


    A bear cave. The beast that once claimed it lay nowhere in sight, but its presence had not been erased—it had been torn away. Blood, dark and congealed, soaked the dirt at the entrance. Tufts of fur clung to the rocks. The earth was scarred with deep claw marks, but none of them matched a bear’s.


    Something had killed it. And whatever it was, it hadn’t left a body behind.


    Elias had seen the aftermath of plenty of violent ends—he had delivered more than his share of them—but this was different. This was brutal. Efficient. Purposeful.


    And worst of all, it wasn’t done.


    Kneeling by a twisted pool of blood, Elias exhaled through his nose. "Eyes in da dark be watchin''," he whispered. The words weren’t meant for Deg or even himself. They were a warning to whatever was out there.


    Then, a sound. A rustling—too slow for wind, too careful for prey.


    Deg’s head snapped toward the trees, his teeth bared in a silent snarl. Elias’s fingers twitched toward the knife on his belt.


    The woods were too quiet. The fire behind him felt useless, its light a beacon rather than a shield. His gut told him all he needed to know.


    He was being hunted.


    That thought had never occurred to Elias before.


    Slowly, he backed away, making his way toward camp, his eyes never leaving the direction of the sound.


    Sitting beside his dwindling fire, he felt a pang of something he hadn’t in years. Not fear—he had made peace with death long ago. No, this was worse.


    Doubt.


    Deg stiffened, ears twitching.


    Then came the snap of a branch.


    Twenty yards away.


    Too close.


    Elias’s hands instinctively grabbed his bow and knocked an arrow, his eyes locked on the darkness beyond the treeline.


    A shape moved.


    Low, deliberate. Watching.


    Deg let out a sudden, piercing bark, his hackles raised, his body tense.


    Elias didn’t blink. Didn’t move.


    Slowly, he saw it.


    And for the first time in his life, he ran.