"Sumthin ant rite," 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.

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  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.

  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.

  On the third night, he found the bear cave.

  Blood soaked the entrance, dark and thick. Fur clung to rocks. Claw marks gouged the dirt—too sharp for a bear. Something had ripped the beast apart and left nothing behind.

  Elias knelt by the congealed pool, exhaling hard. "Eyes in da dark be watchin'," he whispered—a challenge to the unseen.

  A rustling came—too slow for wind, too careful for prey. A whiff of rot stung his nose.

  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.

  He edged back to camp, eyes locked on the shadows. The fire felt useless, its light a beacon rather than a shield. His gut told him all he needed to know. He was being hunted.

  A branch snapped. Twenty yards off. Too close.

  Elias grabbed his bow, nocked an arrow—Robert's steel glinting—and fixed on the treeline.

  A shape moved. Low, deliberate. Watching.

  Deg's whine turned to a piercing bark, hackles high.

  Elias didn't blink.

  Then he saw it—clear enough to know.

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