I awoke to the distant rumble of thunder, the scent of damp earth filling my lungs. The wooden beams above me creaked slightly as the wind whistled through unseen cracks. My mother was already gone. She always rose before me, moving like a shadow through the forest, leaving behind only the faintest traces of her presence. But today, something felt different.


    A folded piece of parchment rested beside me. I picked it up, my fingers tracing the familiar strokes of my mother’s writing. The letters appeared ordinary at first, but as I focused, they began to shift—hidden words emerging beneath the surface. A test. Another one.


    Hunt. Track. Survive.


    Simple words, yet heavy with meaning. She was watching. She was always watching. Without hesitation, I gathered my gear—my bow, my knife, and a small leather pouch filled with dried rations. The forest called, and I answered.


    By the time I reached the deeper wilds, the rain had started. The scent of pine and wet soil mingled with the crisp bite of the wind. Moving through the undergrowth was second nature to me—silent steps, controlled breathing. My mother had drilled it into me relentlessly. One mistake could mean death.


    I spotted the deer grazing near the riverbank, its ears twitching at the slightest sound. My muscles tensed as I drew my bowstring, recalling my mother’s voice from years ago.


    “A hunter does not hesitate, Zayne. Hesitation is mercy, and mercy is death.”


    Memories of our training surfaced. The bruises, the exhaustion, the nights spent nursing wounds she refused to acknowledge. She never coddled me. When I fell, she didn’t pick me up—she only watched, waiting for me to stand on my own.


    I released the arrow. It flew true, striking the deer clean through the neck. It staggered, then fell. The thrill of the hunt was fleeting. The real challenge was the journey back.


    Dragging my kill through the soaked terrain, unease crept in. The forest was silent. Too silent. Then I saw them—tracks, nearly washed away by the rain. Massive, clawed, fresh.


    A predator had been watching.


    A low growl sent ice through my veins. Slowly, I turned.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.


    There it was. A black saber.


    Larger than any beast I had ever seen, its dark fur sleek with rain, its yellow eyes locked onto me—not just with hunger, but something worse.


    Possession.


    It wanted what I had. It had watched me hunt, and now it had come to take its prize.


    The saber lunged. I barely had time to react. Rolling to the side, I freed my knife, but against a beast like this, it was laughable. The creature’s claws slashed through the air where I had stood moments before, gouging deep into the earth.


    I scrambled back, my mind racing. There was no escaping this. Not without a fight.


    The saber lunged again. I moved, but not on my own. My body reacted before my mind could think, my vision blurring—no, sharpening. The world around me slowed. I could see everything. The way the rain curved midair, the minute shifts in the saber’s muscles before it struck. It was as if time itself had bent around me.


    I moved.


    Ducked under its swipe. Pivoted. Struck at its exposed side. The knife barely cut through its thick hide, but it was enough to make it hesitate.


    Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the clarity was gone. My breath hitched, my limbs sluggish. The saber recovered faster than I did.


    It pounced. I braced for the impact—but it never came.


    A whistle cut through the storm. An arrow struck the beast’s side, forcing it back. Another followed, then another. My mother’s silhouette emerged from the trees, her bow drawn, eyes locked on the saber.


    It growled, but it knew it was outmatched. With one final glare, it vanished into the rain.


    I collapsed. The exhaustion hit all at once, the cold seeping into my bones. My mother was beside me in an instant, checking my wounds. Her touch was careful but firm, the warmth of her presence grounding me.


    She exhaled slowly, lowering her bow. Her lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. Her eyes lingered on me for a moment too long, like she had seen something she was waiting for.


    “You fought well,” she murmured. “Better than I expected.”


    I barely had the strength to keep my eyes open as she tended to my wounds. My thoughts were sluggish, my body aching, but one thing stood out in my mind.


    The fight. The way I had moved. It wasn’t skill. It wasn’t instinct.


    It was something else.


    Something I didn’t yet understand.