Thorne didn’t know how long he’d been walking.

  His legs burned, breath ragged. The jagged rock in his hand felt heavier with every step. The endless meadow stretched around him, ashen grass swaying under the black sun's cold gaze. Each breath filled his lungs with sharp, metallic air, but it wasn’t enough. The quiet pressed against his skull, suffocating.

  His mind echoed with the memory of frost-touched fur, sharp eyes, and a form imbued with shadow.

  The wolf.

  He hadn’t seen it since the attack, but the image lingered. A shadow that refused to fade. His body still trembled from the encounter. His mind, though? That was worse. It twisted and pulled, clawing for answers in a world that gave none.

  Something shifted. Soft. Subtle.

  A whisper. Faint. Distant.

  “Thorne.”

  He stopped. His pulse spiked.

  The voice wasn’t just familiar—it was unmistakable. Collins. Sharp, dry, with that quiet grit that always came through under fire.

  But Collins was dead.

  “No,” Thorne breathed, turning sharply, scanning the meadow. “No, that’s not…”

  Nothing. Just swaying grass and the endless horizon.

  He swallowed hard and shook his head. The cold must be getting to him. Fatigue. Stress. That had to be it.

  But then the whisper came again—closer this time.

  “Thorne… help me.”

  His breath hitched. He turned in a slow circle, scanning every shadow, every ripple of grass. There was nothing. Only the slow, steady wind and the empty sway of the meadow.

  It's not real. It's not real.

  But his feet moved before his mind could argue. He walked toward the sound, the ground crunching beneath his boots.

  The world seemed to bend with every step.

  Grass grew thicker, denser. Shadows stretched longer. His own breath felt like it echoed too loud, scraping against the silence. Something flickered at the edge of his vision—just for a moment.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  A figure. Fading as soon as he turned.

  He blinked hard. Once. Twice.

  Nothing.

  But when he moved again, the shadow reappeared—closer.

  His heart hammered, every beat louder than the last. Collins. Reeves. Decker. Their faces flitted behind his eyes. He couldn’t shake the image of their last moments, of blood-soaked earth and the final, ragged breaths.

  And here they were—at the edge of his sight, stepping just beyond reach.

  “Stop,” he whispered, voice raw. “Stop playing with me.”

  But the world didn’t stop. The shadow didn’t stop.

  He stumbled into thicker grass, every blade taller than before, brushing against his arms, his legs. The air grew heavier, damp. Strange, unnatural light filtered through the stalks, casting long, cold shadows across the earth.

  It wasn’t sunlight. Not truly.

  But it beckoned. Drawing him deeper.

  He wasn’t sure why he followed. He wasn’t sure if he could stop.

  The whispers returned, but softer now. Less urgent. Less human.

  A woman’s voice. Indifferent. Melodic.

  “Come.”

  The word settled under his skin. Heavy. Wrong. But his feet moved anyway.

  The landscape shifted beneath him, the earth falling away. The grass parted, and Thorne found himself standing at the edge of a hollow—a den carved into the ground, ancient and dark. The space pulsed with an energy that didn’t belong to the meadow.

  It belonged to something older. Something commanding.

  He took a hesitant step forward. The shadows were thick, pressing against him, but the pull was stronger. Something was inside, waiting.

  He didn’t know how long he'd been walking. How long he'd been following… what?

  He turned back.

  The meadow was gone.

  No horizon. No path. Only the den. Only the dark.

  Panic surged in his chest. He stepped back, but the earth beneath his feet shifted—like it didn’t want him to leave.

  "How did I get here?"

  The words were weak, torn from a throat dry and raw.

  No answer.

  And then the pressure came.

  Soft at first. A pulse against his brow. Then sharper—like a blade sliding into his thoughts.

  Thorne gritted his teeth, pressing his fingers to the burning mark. It felt like fire, but cold. He stumbled, vision blurring as something pushed into his mind.

  A shadow.

  A shape.

  Eyes like trapped starlight, ancient and cold

  “Wrong.”

  The voice wasn’t spoken. It wasn’t even a thought. It was.

  It echoed through his skull, deeper than sound, heavier than fear.

  He spun, rock raised. But the den remained still, empty.

  "Show yourself!" His voice cracked, sharp and hollow.

  Silence answered him. Only the whisper of wind. Only his own pulse.

  But something lingered. Watching. Waiting.

  Thorne’s chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. The air was colder now. Thicker. The shadows heavier.

  And then, the realization struck. Not just realization—understanding.

  He hadn’t stumbled here.

  He’d been led.

  His fingers brushed the mark again, feeling the lingering warmth. The burning pull. And for the first time, he understood the depth of his mistake.

  "You led me here," he whispered. His voice was small, weak.

  But something heard.

  Somewhere in the dark, silver eyes opened—just for a moment.

  And then they were gone.

  Thorne backed away slowly, his body tense, ready for an attack that didn’t come.

  He didn’t know what this place was.

  He didn’t know why it called to him.

  But he knew the hunt wasn’t over.

  And he was already losing.

  What did you think of the psychological tension? Was it unsettling in the right way? Let me know—I'm always lurking in the comments! And hey, if you’re enjoying the vibe so far, consider rating or sharing. It helps more than you know.

  Surprise! Chapter 3 is dropping today to keep the tension rolling. I wanted to keep the momentum going so the early story feels sharp and immersive. Let me know what you think, and expect the next update on 11/03/2025!

  And of course, here's your ultra rare frog of the day... partner.

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