The setting sun painted the sky in hues of bruised purple and blood orange, casting long, skeletal shadows across the scrubland. Old Man Tiberius, as he was known in the scattered hamlets of the region, shuffled along the dusty track, his worn leather satchel bumping against his hip. He wasn’t a powerful wizard, not in the way that conjured firestorms or commanded armies. Tiberius was a hedge wizard, a weaver of small magics, a healer of livestock, a diviner of lost trinkets. His magic was tied to the land, to the rhythm of the seasons, to the whisper of the wind through the tall grasses.

  He was returning from a small village nestled in the foothills, where he’d helped a farmer’s wife with a difficult childbirth. The journey back was longer than he’d anticipated, and the encroaching darkness brought with it a growing unease. He knew this stretch of scrubland was home to packs of wild dogs, creatures driven to desperation by the harsh conditions and the scarcity of prey.

  He quickened his pace, his breath catching in his throat. He clutched his gnarled staff, its wood worn smooth from years of use, more for comfort than any real sense of defense. He wasn't a fighter. His magic was for healing, for nurturing, not for combat.

  The first sound was a low growl, carried on the wind. It was followed by another, and another, until the air was filled with a chorus of menacing snarls. Tiberius’s heart pounded in his chest. He could see them now, emerging from the shadows, their eyes glowing like embers in the fading light.

  They were gaunt, mangy creatures, their ribs showing through their matted fur. Their teeth were bared, their lips curled back in snarls, and their eyes held a hunger that chilled Tiberius to the bone. They were circling him, their movements fluid and predatory.

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  Tiberius knew he was trapped. He had no illusions about his chances. He was an old man, frail and weak, no match for a pack of hungry wild dogs. He raised his staff, a futile gesture of defiance.

  He tried a simple spell, a whispered incantation meant to create a small burst of light and sound, hoping to scare the dogs away. A few sparks flickered from the tip of his staff, accompanied by a weak pop, but the effect was negligible. The dogs barely flinched, their eyes still fixed on him with predatory intensity.

  The dogs lunged.

  Tiberius cried out, a thin, reedy sound that was quickly swallowed by the wind. He swung his staff wildly, connecting with one of the dogs, sending it yelping back momentarily. But there were too many of them.

  They swarmed him, their teeth and claws tearing at his robes, at his flesh. He fell to the ground, the weight of the dogs pressing him down. He could feel their hot breath on his face, their sharp teeth tearing at his skin.

  He screamed, a desperate, terrified cry that echoed across the scrubland. But there was no one to hear him, no one to help him.

  The attack was swift and brutal. The dogs, driven by hunger and desperation, tore Tiberius apart. His screams quickly subsided, replaced by the sounds of snarling and tearing flesh.

  When the first rays of dawn broke across the horizon, they revealed a gruesome scene. The scrubland was stained with blood, and the scattered remains of Tiberius’s robes and belongings lay strewn across the ground. The dogs were gone, their bellies full, leaving behind only the picked-clean bones of the old hedge wizard, a silent testament to the harsh realities of the wild. The wind whispered through the tall grasses, a mournful dirge for the man who had fallen prey to the unforgiving wilderness.