Tareth woke with blood in his mouth.

  Not fresh—just the taste. Sour, metallic, clinging to the back of his throat like old ash.

  His spine ached. His ribs hurt. One ankle throbbed every time he shifted, and the cold had soaked through everything—the moss, his clothes, even the bark beneath his shoulder.

  The lean-to sagged above him like a body that’d given up He was gonna have to repair it soon or move.

  He blinked up at the green.

  Same light. Same sky.

  Still no sun. Still no morning. Just a forest that didn’t know how to change.

  He sat up slow.

  The motion lit fire in his arm.

  He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, cradled the elbow close. The makeshift bandage was damp. The wound beneath it throbbed in pulses—red, tight, angry.

  He peeled the cloth back, hissing as it pulled skin.

  Still bleeding in places. Not deep, but wide. Ragged. He didn’t remember how sharp the claws had been—only the pressure, the way they dragged.

  He fumbled in the pouch. Pulled out the crushed feverroot ate some, then the silver-veined leaves Serra swore by.

  Ground it between his fingers. Slapped it on.

  It burned like sin.

  He bit down on a stick to keep from yelling.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  His hand shook as he rewrapped the cloth. Not clean. Not tight. But it held.

  He looked down at his hands. Then at the sword. Then at the pouch.

  Then at himself.

  The boy in the moss didn’t look like one anymore.

  Hair matted. Eyes sunken. Lips cracked.

  And beneath it all—that stink.

  Not just dirt.

  Not just blood.

  Survival.

  He touched his stomach. Hunger still there. A hollow ache behind the ribs.

  He clenched his jaw. Swallowed.

  “I’m not dying in this moss-pit,” he whispered.

  The wind shifted. Branches above creaked once.

  He pushed himself upright. Every joint protested. The cold bit deep.

  His hand found the hilt of the sword. Then let go.

  Not yet.

  First—heat.

  Real heat.

  “I’m going to make fire.”

  ***

  Later that day Tareth crouched beside the pit he’d scraped out with a flat stone. Fingers trembling. Breath sharp.

  The sword lay beside him, bronze edge dulled with dirt. No flint. No tinderbox. Just bark, moss, and a promise whispered to himself.

  “I’m going to make fire.”

  He pressed the rock against the blade’s edge. Struck. The sound cracked through the trees—sharp, hopeful.

  Nothing.

  He tried again.

  Still nothing.

  His hands tensed. He grit his teeth. “Come on—”

  Another strike. A puff of dust. No spark.

  He stared at the blade. Then at the stone. The anger came fast.

  “This is stupid.”

  The words snapped out before he could stop them.

  He dropped the stone. Picked it back up. Adjusted. Struck.

  Still no spark.

  And then—somewhere in the back of his head—

  “You don’t fight the stone.”

  John’s voice, quiet and half-grinning, floated through the silence.

  “You ask it. Calm hands. Sharp edge. And bark dry enough to crack in your teeth.”

  Tareth scowled.

  “You had flint,” he muttered. “And time.”

  But he moved slower now. Angle adjusted. Hand steady.

  Struck again.

  A flicker.

  Then smoke.

  Then—barely—a kiss of orange in the bark.

  He dropped low, cupped his hands, breath shallow.

  Blew.

  The fire caught. Small. Trembling. Real.

  He sat back, eyes stinging.

  No smile. Just a whisper.

  “…Told you.”

  The fire hissed as the bark curled in on itself, flame licking low and cautious.

  He leaned back on his heels, blinking smoke from his eyes. The heat wasn’t much, but it was real. His fingers tingled with it.

  He pulled the bundle of wolf meat from his pouch, unwrapped it slow.

  Three pieces. Still red. Still warm from where the dungeon had left them.

  He skewered one on a stripped stick. Held it above the flame.

  The first attempt burned. Outside black, inside bleeding.

  The second cooked too slow. The smoke soaked in, turned bitter.

  The third—he watched closer. Turned it often. Let the fat crackle, the edges sear, the center warm.

  When he bit in, it was still rough. Still wild.

  But it was food.

  Real food.

  His stomach lurched, then settled.

  The tension didn’t leave. Not entirely. The forest still watched—quiet, unmoving. But the fire pushed back the edges a little. Gave him space.

  He sat with his back against the shelter wall, legs stretched, sword close.

  He watched the flames crackle.

  Wrapped what was left of the last piece of meat.

  Let his eyes close.

  The wound in his arm still ached—deep and hot—but it was manageable now.

  Tomorrow, he’d find water.

  Tomorrow, he’d find herbs.

  But tonight…

  Tonight he slept beside fire.

  And for the first time since falling into the Hollow—

  He didn’t dream of dying.

  ***

  Tareth woke slower this time.

  No claws scraping. No howls in the dark. Just the slow drip of mist from the leaves, and the quiet shudder of his own breath.

  The fire was long gone—reduced to black coals and the ghost of warmth in the moss. The lean-to sagged above him, heavy with dew.

  He sat up, muscles stiff. The wound on his arm twinged but didn’t tear open. The feverroot and bloodleaf had done their work.

  Better.

  Not whole.

  But better.

  He crawled out from under the shelter, shaking sleep from his limbs, and stretched in the cold light. His breath steamed faintly.

  The bronze sword lay against the roots where he’d left it.

  Waiting.

  Tareth picked it up, felt the weight in his hand. Not heavy—not yet—but it pulled at his wrist in a way he understood now. A reminder.

  You survive with your body. Not with luck.

  He stepped into a loose stance. Left foot forward. Weight centered. Elbows loose.

  A slow cut. Down, left to right.

  A pivot. A guard raised.

  He moved through the forms John had shown him—half-remembered drills from long mornings behind the barn, when the dust rose and the sun hadn’t yet boiled the valley.

  The air here didn’t rise with heat.

  Just stayed still. Watching.

  Tareth finished the last cut, blade trembling slightly from the effort, and let it fall to his side.

  Not perfect.

  But slowly getting more used to it.

  Every swing, every breath—it stacked.

  He sheathed the blade against his hip and turned toward the trees.

  Today wasn’t for fighting.

  Today was for living.

  Water. Herbs. Maybe even food that didn’t scream when you killed it.

  He set off, boots sinking soft into the moss, and the forest swallowed him whole.

  The trees didn’t feel right today.

  The forest thickened quick.

  Every path felt like a trap. Roots coiled in patterns that didn’t belong—like someone had tried to draw circles with shaking hands. He picked a direction anyway. Started marking stone stacks again. Twenty paces, then one more.

  He spoke as he moved—quiet, to himself.

  “Find herbs. Find water. Try not to piss off anything with teeth.”

  A branch cracked to his left.

  He stopped. Waited.

  Nothing followed.

  “Good. Great. Love that for me.”

  He moved slower after that.

  A few minutes later, something darted through the underbrush. Quick. Low.

  He tensed—hand to sword.

  Then stopped.

  “…Rabbit?”

  It paused just long enough for him to see it.

  Ears too short. Eyes too still. Teeth—wrong. Flat, but wide. Like they were built to tear bark, not chew it.

  Tareth blinked. “Okay. Not a rabbit like im used to.”

  It vanished.

  He stood there, frowning at the space it left behind.

  “That’s fine,” he muttered. “We’ll just… file that under ‘mutated dungeon bunny.’”

  He kept walking. Slope dipped. The trees thinned.

  Then—light.

  Soft and real. Not the green-stained glow that filtered through the rest of the Hollow.

  A clearing.

  And there, at its center—quiet and tucked between stone—was water.

  Clear.

  Still, but not dead like the lake he had found turned.

  He dropped to his knees.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he whispered, and dipped his hand in.

  Cold. Clean.

  He drank deep—cupped palms, greedy gulps.

  Didn’t stop until his chest hurt from how fast he’d breathed it in.

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  He sat back. Wiped his mouth. Exhaled slow.

  “…Okay,” he said. “That’s a win.”

  Then he saw the fish.

  A flicker caught his eye—something pale leaning against the far rock.

  He stood. Moved slow, moss muffling his boots.

  A spear.

  Not snapped. Not rotten. Still whole.

  The shaft was pale wood, smooth like river-polished stone. The tip was chipped stone, knapped clean and bound in place with tight, dark fiber.

  Tareth crouched low, staring.

  "Wait... where the heck did that come from?"

  He looked around.

  Nothing. Just water, reeds, trees curling in tight.

  No footprints. No broken branches. No sign anyone had walked this way in years—if ever.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy.

  "I’m the only one here," he muttered. "Right?"

  The spear just leaned there. Waiting.

  He stood. Reached out slow. Fingers brushing the wood.

  Solid. Real.

  He hefted it, testing the weight.

  Light. Balanced. Like someone had left it here for him.

  Or like something wanted him to think that.

  He shivered once. Shook it off.

  "Yeah, well," he said aloud, "if you wanted it back, you shoulda taken better care of it."

  He turned back toward the lake.

  The fish still moved, faint shadows under the surface.

  Tareth crept closer to the edge.

  Raised the spear.

  Struck.

  Missed.

  The splash echoed out, sharp and clumsy.

  He scowled.

  "Okay. So not that easy."

  He crouched lower. Watched.

  Minutes stretched thin.

  The fish circled back—lazy, slow, unbothered.

  Tareth tightened his grip. Breath shallow. Arm steady.

  Waited.

  Waited.

  Then—struck.

  This time, the spear flashed down sharp and true.

  When he pulled it up, a fish wriggled at the end—silver scales flashing, tail snapping water into his face.

  Tareth grinned.

  A real grin. Wide. Stupid.

  He yanked the fish loose and dropped it onto the grass.

  "Still havn't died yet," he said, wiping his hands on his pants. "Still winning."

  He didn’t stop at one.

  The first fish flopped on the grass, silver belly flashing. Then another. Then a third.

  Tareth crouched by the bank, spear dripping, arms aching in a good way.

  Three fish.

  Different food new but exciting.

  He sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "I'm gonna eat good now," he said, half to the trees, half to the water. A real grin cracked his face—sharp, worn, but true.

  Then he looked down.

  Mud smeared up to his knees. Dirt caked on his arms. Blood crusted on the old bandage.

  He wrinkled his nose.

  "...I need a bath."

  He glanced at the lake. Still green-lit. Still weirdly glassy.

  He eyed it suspiciously.

  "Eh," he muttered. "Guess this'll do."

  He stripped down, tossing his ragged shirt aside, and waded in slow.

  The water was cold—but not biting. More... still. Heavy.

  He dunked himself under, scrubbed at the grime with stiff fingers, came up sputtering.

  It felt better, even if it smelled faintly like stone and moss.

  When he was done, he hauled out onto the grass, dripping, shivering a little. He wrung out his pants first, then laid them flat on a rock under the open canopy.

  The weird green light soaked the clearing, same as always—but something about it made the cloth dry faster than it should've. No real heat. No sun pounding down. Just... evaporation.

  Tareth watched it a moment, frowning.

  "That's not normal," he muttered. "Nothing here is."

  His pants dried enough to tug back on without soaking through within a half hour.

  He picked up what was left of his shirt—mostly tears and stained cloth—and started ripping it into strips.

  Good for wrapping. Good for bandaging.

  Good for not dying.

  He wound a strip careful around his arm—still tender, but healing now. The feverroot had done its job. The worst of the swelling was gone.

  When he tied the knot off, he finally sat back.

  Bare-chested, breathing easier.

  And that’s when he noticed.

  Muscle. Not heavy. Not thick like the farmers back home.

  But wiry.

  Real.

  Across his arms, his chest, even the faint lines on his ribs—like his body had been carving itself sharper while he wasn't paying attention.

  He touched his forearm, almost surprised by the hardness under the skin.

  "Look at you," he said low. A little wonder, a little pride. "Turning into a real adventurer."

  The trees said nothing in return.

  Just swayed faintly, the light sliding between them like breath.

  Tareth leaned back on the rock, arms behind him, and let himself breathe.

  Just for a minute.

  Then he'd get to finding herbs.

  And maybe—just maybe—he had started believing he could survive this place after all.

  Acouple hours passed him just laying on the ground thinking then he stretched once more, then shook himself out of it.

  "Alright," he muttered. "Not finished yet."

  He gathered what little he had—pouch slung over his shoulder, sword strapped tight, three fish skewered on a strip of vine, and the spear tucked under one arm.

  The old thing was heavier than it looked. Still smooth. Still solid.

  He glanced at it again.

  "Where the hell did you come from?" he said aloud, half-joking, half-not.

  The spear said nothing. Just rested easy against his side like it had always been his.

  He pushed the thought down.

  One thing at a time.

  "Now for herbs," he said.

  The woods welcomed him back without a sound.

  He slipped between the trunks, boots brushing moss, moving careful. Careful didn't mean slow—not anymore. It just meant smart. Light on his feet, sword hand never far from ready.

  As he moved, his mind wandered.

  Feverroot. Bloodleaf. The only two plants he really trusted so far.

  He remembered Serra's voice, sharp and certain as she crouched by the village paths, rattling off names like secrets:

  "Silver veins—good for burns, cuts, fever. Bloodleaf for wounds that won't clot. Use the leaves, not the stalks. And watch your hands, idiot, it bites if you pull wrong."

  He smiled to himself, small and quick.

  "Saved my ass," he said under his breath. "You and John both."

  Would’ve been dead twice over without them. No question.

  Another turn through the brush—and there, half-hidden under a sagging fern—

  Feverroot.

  Silver-veined, pale green, curling in the moss like it had been waiting for him.

  He dropped to a crouch, plucked it clean.

  Nearby—bloodleaf too.

  Red-veined, sharp-edged, stubborn as ever.

  He tugged a few leaves loose, careful not to shred them, stuffed them into his pouch.

  The forest shifted around him—still damp, still humming with that same heavy quiet.

  He glanced toward the thinning green ahead.

  "That’s enough for today," he said quietly. "No reason to get greedy."

  He turned back toward the lean-to.

  Toward the fire that was waiting.

  ***

  The lean-to sagged in the fading green light when he stumbled back into camp.

  Tareth dropped everything in a heap—pouch, spear, fish. His arms ached in that deep, hollow way that didn’t go away with sleep anymore.

  "One thing at a time," he muttered, crouching near the fire pit.

  The fire was easier now. Bark, blade, spark. He coaxed it back with steady hands, small and stubborn, like the flames just needed reminding.

  Once it caught, he dragged a flat rock closer, scraped it clean, and set to work.

  The fish were slippery, cold. He fumbled the first one, nearly dropped it into the dirt, cursed under his breath.

  "You’re not gonna beat me too," he said, grinning despite himself.

  He gutted it the way John showed him once—blade careful, thumb braced, pull smooth. Sloppy, but it worked. He tossed the guts far off into the trees, then skewered the cleaned fish on a stripped branch.

  The smell hit first. Sharp. Smoky. Real.

  His stomach growled hard enough to hurt.

  When it was ready—barely charred, flesh flaky—he tore into it with both hands, sitting cross-legged by the fire.

  He ate too fast at first, then slower. Tasting the fat. The salt that wasn’t there but should’ve been.

  As he ate, he stared into the fire.

  Five days. Five whole days in a dungeon he wondered if that was impressive compared to others.

  He chewed. Swallowed.

  "I’m gonna beat this and go home," he said aloud, voice rough.

  But he knew better than to think it meant anything yet.

  He thought about the wolves—how the first nearly killed him. How the next ones would come sooner or later. Meaner. Smarter.

  And then there was the thing that howled.

  The one that made the others run.

  The one he hadn’t seen yet.

  His hand tightened around the fishbone.

  "I’ll be ready," he said under his breath.

  Even if it killed him.

  When the bones were picked clean, he tossed them into the fire, wiped his hands on his pants, and crawled into the lean-to.

  The green light had almost faded now—leaving the world damp, cold, shivering.

  He curled up close to the fire’s glow, sword tucked tight against his side.

  The wound on his arm throbbed dull and deep—but it was healing. Slow. Steady.

  He closed his eyes.

  Let the forest hum around him.

  Let the fear slip away for a little while.

  Sleep came easier than he thought it would.

  And for one more night—

  Tareth Vael survived.

  ***

  He woke with the green light creeping low through the moss above.

  He stretched—and for the first time in days, the motion didn't drag fire through his arm. No ache. No pull. Just a thin scar, faded pink across the forearm where the wolf's claw had caught him.

  He flexed his hand. Turned it. Grinned.

  "Finally wounds sure do heal fast here when paired with medicine."

  The morning tasted sharper because of it. Not clean—nothing here ever felt clean—but lighter. Like the air didn't cling so heavy.

  He grabbed his sword from where it leaned against the shelter wall. Tested the weight. No hesitation this time. No slow cradling like he might tear something open.

  He could train properly now.

  Tareth stepped out into the clearing, boots sinking soft in the moss.

  He moved through the first forms slow. Breath steady. Feet sliding smooth across the ground, not stomping, not stiff.

  Overhead, the trees watched. Unmoving. Still as ever.

  Good.

  He picked up the pace. Sweeps, thrusts, pivots. The old rhythm came back easy—buried in the hands even when the mind faltered.

  It wasn’t perfect. His stance drifted. His elbow flared wide when it should’ve stayed tucked.

  But it was better.

  Better every hour.

  He trained until sweat soaked through the torn waist of his pants, until his arms trembled from the strain.

  Then he dropped into the moss, panting, sword laid flat beside him.

  "You'd've liked that one, John," he muttered, rolling onto his back. "Not pretty. But it’d do."

  He stayed like that a while. Let the fake sky drift above him. Let the ache settle into muscle and not into mind.

  After a time, the hunger gnawed back up his ribs.

  He sat up, brushing leaves from his shoulders, and pulled on his boots.

  He wiped sweat from his forehead, pushed himself to his feet.

  The fish had been good. Better than he thought it would be. But the memory of those rabbits—quick, darting under the ferns when he’d been out gathering—kept scratching at him.

  "Rabbit stew," he said under his breath, even though there was no stewpot, no carrots, no mother’s scolding at the fire. Just the thought of it.

  He slid the sword back through his waistband, knotting the cloth tighter so it wouldn't slip when he moved.

  As he shifted, a memory floated up—half-lost, half-clinging.

  Not his. Just overheard.

  One afternoon back home, running an errand to the priest for his mother—basket under his arm, mind half on the road, half on the way the stormlight cracked the sky. He’d passed the smithy just as John and Garen stood by the forge, smoke curling in lazy ropes and overhead a conversation.

  John’s voice, dry as old bark: "Pitfall’s best if you’re working alone. No net, no noise. Dig fast, cover faster. They don’t see the hole ‘til they’re in it."

  Garen’s chuckle: "You ever out-dig a rabbit, John?"

  John’s grunt: "Don’t have to. Just have to outthink ‘em."

  Tareth scratched his chin, squinting at the clearing.

  "Outthink it, huh?"

  eventually he was back to the spot where the rabbits had been.

  He dropped to a crouch, fingers testing the dirt—soft enough, but packed underneath. It would be hell on his back. His arms. But maybe not impossible.

  "Better than chasing my dinner till I collapse."

  He slid his sword free of his belt and stabbed it into the soil, marking the center.

  Time to dig.

  He set the sword down and started clawing at the dirt with his hands.

  It was worse than he thought.

  Roots tangled under the topsoil, thick as cords. Stones jammed into his knuckles. Every handful he threw aside felt like moving a mountain with a spoon.

  Still, he kept at it.

  Breath growing ragged. Fingertips raw. Shirt sticking to his back with sweat.

  "John made this sound easy," he grunted, tossing another clump.

  The hole was barely knee-deep after what felt like an hour. His arms ached. His ribs pulled tight every time he leaned in.

  But it was coming along. Slow. Rough.

  He stabbed the sword down again, trying to wedge loose a stubborn root—when a sound stopped him.

  A crack.

  Not a branch falling. Not a rabbit.

  He froze, one hand on the hilt.

  Another sound—closer now. A shuffle. A scrape. Breathing, low and rough.

  He yanked the sword free, heart hammering.

  Turned.

  Scanned the trees.

  Nothing.

  The green light shifted—dim, heavy, wrong.

  He edged back from the half-dug pit, sword low, eyes wide.

  Then—

  a growl.

  Low. Wet. Hungry.

  It came from the right—no time to think—He shifted his stance, sword raised—

  The wolf hit the clearing in a blur of fur and teeth.

  It lunged no thought just pure instinct.

  He barely caught it—blade up, feet stumbling wide. The weight slammed into him like a hammer. His arms jolted from the force. He twisted, braced, shoved—

  Teeth snapped inches from his ribs.

  He pivoted, dropped low. The wolf skidded past, claws gouging deep scars into the dirt, snarling—a sound more bone-deep than beast.

  Its eyes burned. Bright. Wrong. Like blood loss meant nothing to it.

  His heart slammed against his ribs.

  Move. Think.

  He staggered upright, sword raised just in time to meet the second charge.

  The wolf wasn’t fast—it was inevitable.

  It came low again, head ducked, shoulders rolling like a wave.

  He side-stepped, swinging wide.

  The blade kissed its shoulder, hard—and skidded.

  Bone. Thick. Unnatural.

  The wolf barely flinched. Just turned, foam spraying from its jaws.

  He backed off, panting.

  It always rushed when he faltered.

  He caught that now—etched it into his hands, his stance.

  The wolf growled—a raw, gurgling sound—and circled him, limping slightly, but its eyes never dulled.

  His fingers shifted on the hilt. His arm screamed. His ribs burned from the stumble.

  He let his blade lower. Just a little.

  The wolf lunged.

  There.

  He twisted, dropping low, sliding under the snapping jaws.

  The sword came up from his side, driven with everything he had.

  It sank deep beneath the ribs.

  The wolf howled—a horrible, cracking sound—and thrashed hard enough to nearly rip the blade from his hands.

  He held on, teeth gritted, and drove the sword deeper.

  The wolf convulsed once.

  Twice.

  A final shudder ran through its chest.

  The light in its eyes guttered out.

  Slow.

  Unwilling.

  Then it crumpled sideways, a heavy, broken weight in the moss.

  He stumbled back, sword dragging blood across the dirt, chest heaving.

  He stared—waiting for it to rise again.

  It didn’t.

  Only then did he realize how hard he was shaking.

  The whisper came slow, curling behind his eyes:

  [Swordsmanship – Level 4]

  He exhaled a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding.

  Laughed once.

  Ragged. Almost broken.

  Not from victory.

  From surviving.

  He wiped the blade on the nearest patch of moss, hands trembling too badly to tie it clean.

  The wolf’s body steamed faintly in the cool green light.

  Already, he could see it beginning to disintegrate—edges softening, fur losing form.

  He knelt.

  Watched.

  And whispered:

  "Easier than the last im getting better at this."

  He stared.

  Not shocked anymore. Just... tired.

  He dropped to one knee, wiped the blade on the moss without thinking, and looked where the body had been.

  A small bundle sat there—neat, tucked in thick hide.

  And next to it—

  Two long, curved fangs. Bone-white. Gleaming like they’d been polished.

  He reached out, slow.

  The meat he expected—clean, trimmed, ready like before.

  But the fangs...

  He turned them in his hand. Light. Sharp at the tips. Warm, somehow, against his palm.

  "What the hell am I supposed to do with these?" he muttered.

  He tucked the bundle of meat into his pouch, slid the fangs carefully into a side pocket he'd knotted into the vine cord.

  He sat by the spot where the wolf had turned to ash breathing slowly and relaxing.

  ***

  It was abit before he got up and started toward to pool of water thirsty.

  He walked slow.

  Sword through his belt. Pouch pressing against his hip. Every step made his legs ache deeper, a hot line of pain running from his knee to his hip.

  He didn’t rush.

  Didn’t even try.

  The pool wasn’t far—but far enough that every stretch of moss felt like it pulled at him, soft and slow, like hands that didn’t want to let go.

  His mind drifted as he moved.

  Trap, he thought.

  Still need to finish the trap.

  The hole was started, half-dug near the ridge where the rabbits liked to dart out into the clearing. He could picture it—muddy edges, shallow enough to see but deep enough to snap a leg if the luck was bad.

  John’s voice floated back again: "Dig fast. Cover faster."

  But gods, he was tired.

  He stopped once, hands on his knees, breathing sharp through his teeth.

  Maybe after water, he thought.

  Get a drink. Rest. Think clearer.

  He started moving again, slower, hand brushing tree trunks to steady himself.

  The forest leaned in around him—moss thick, roots curled like old bones. He could hear the pool ahead now, the faint wet smell of water soaking into the dirt.

  Almost there.

  He crept closer, crouching low without thinking—instinct, bone-deep.

  Pushed aside a thick fern with two fingers.

  And froze.

  At the water’s edge, drinking slow, heads dipping low and rippling the surface—three wolves.

  Not like the ones he’d fought.

  Bigger.

  Meaner.

  The Sight flared automatically behind his eyes—

  [Wolf – Level 4]

  [Wolf – Level 4]

  And in the center—

  [Graymane – Level 6]

  The one in the center dwarfed the others—easily twice the size of them. Shoulders thick enough to batter down a door. Fur wasn’t black or brown. It was silver—broken, tarnished, like something that had been burned and left to rot. Light twisted off it wrong, the way the forge glared too hot when Garen was angry.

  It drank first.

  The others waited, heads low, tails still, ears flicking at every tiny sound.

  When Graymane lifted its head, water dripping from its jaws, the others stepped back.

  Submissive. Silent.

  Tareth held his breath.

  A named creature, he thought, pulse hammering.

  Why is it named?

  It’s not just an alpha wolf or pack leader. It’s something worse.

  If it’s named... how hard is it going to be to kill?

  His fingers brushed the hilt at his waist but didn’t grip it.

  No use.

  No fight.

  Not now.

  He crouched lower behind the fern, heart slamming against his ribs, barely daring to breathe.

  The wolves lingered.

  Minutes bled long.

  One paced the edge of the pool, pawing the mud. Another snapped at something unseen. Graymane just watched—still, cold, certain.

  His knees started to ache from crouching. His ankles stiffened. His back twitched.

  But he didn’t move.

  Didn’t make a sound.

  Eventually—after what felt like hours—Graymane rumbled low in its chest. Not a growl. Not a warning. Just a sound.

  The others snapped to attention.

  Together, they turned.

  Melted back into the trees.

  Silent as smoke.

  He stayed frozen another minute.

  Then another.

  Only when he couldn’t hear anything but the soft ripple of the pool again did he move.

  Slow.

  Crouched.

  He inched toward the water, muscles locked tight, every breath a whisper between his teeth.

  Knees hit the mud.

  Hands scooped the water quick—cupped, drank, cupped, drank.

  It tasted sharp. Cold. Real.

  He splashed some across his face. Let it soak the dirt from his arms, the blood from his knuckles.

  The cold burned awake parts of him that had gone numb.

  He sat down hard cross legged.

  Stared across the water where the wolves had been.

  And for the first time in days, a real shiver ran through him.

  Not from cold.

  Not from hunger.

  But from knowing—

  There are things here i have to fight the size of a horse or bigger.

  Things I’m not ready for.

  Not yet.

  He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm.

  Pushed to his feet.

  And turned back toward the half-dug pit, the trap still waiting.

  He thought about the half-dug trap, waiting unfinished in the clearing.

  But his legs ached deep. His arms shook if he tried to clench a fist.

  "Not today," he muttered.

  "Tomorrow."

  "I’ll get there," he muttered under his breath.

  Voice too low for the trees to hear.

  "I’ll get there."

  ***

  Tareth moved slow through the trees.

  Not like before—no rush, no breathless scramble. Just heavy steps, soft over the moss, careful where he placed his weight.

  The pool faded behind him, but the memory of it didn’t.

  Graymane.

  Even thinking the name made his stomach knot.

  Bigger than anything he’d fought. Bigger than anything he’d even imagined.

  And it wasn’t alone.

  He brushed a hand over the pouch at his belt—felt the hard edge of the wolf fangs tucked inside. A small prize compared to what waited out there.

  He found the lean-to by instinct, half-sagging under its own weight, branches slumped, moss damp.

  Home, for now.

  He ducked low, crawled inside. The air smelled of smoke, old sweat, dirt.

  Safe.

  Safer, anyway.

  He didn’t bother cooking. Just tore a strip of half-dried fish from the pouch, chewed slow without tasting it.

  The forest creaked once overhead.

  He rolled onto his side, sword close, one hand still resting on the hilt.

  Graymane’s eyes burned behind his closed lids.

  The way the others had bowed.

  The way the air itself seemed to pull back when it moved.

  He swallowed dry.

  Sleep took him eventually.

  But it wasn’t the kind that dreamed.