The forest closed around them like a second world.
The light behind the hunters dimmed until it felt like dawn had never come. The trees grew thick and tall, their branches woven together overhead. Moss covered the trunks like old skin. Roots twisted across the path in thick ropes. The air smelled of wet bark, rotting leaves, and cold earth.
The chief walked at the front, spear stick in hand, eyes moving from shadow to shadow. His steps were quiet on the damp ground. His breath was steady. The others followed in a loose line, trying to match his movements but failing to hide their unease.
The forest was too still.
Even his brother, who never feared anything, kept glancing around with narrowed eyes. His sister stayed near the middle of the group, close to the healer. The rival walked on the chief's left, back straight, jaw set.
No one spoke.
The chief lifted a hand. They stopped. He crouched and touched the dirt.
A wide trail of crushed leaves and bent grass lay ahead. Fresh tracks. Something heavy had passed through. The ground still held the warmth of its weight.
His fingers traced the marks.
Not deer.
Not boar.
Not bear.
Too large.
He stood again, wiping dirt from his palm.
His brother stepped closer. "What animal?"
The chief shook his head. "Not sure. Big."
His brother grinned, showing teeth. "Good. More meat."
The rival snorted softly. "Or it eats us first."
The chief said nothing. His mind was on the strange feeling he carried since waking. A pressure in his chest. A whisper in the back of his thoughts. Instinct trying to say something he could not put into words.
They moved again.
Birds fluttered above them, but only once. A few leaves drifted from a high branch, falling slow through the air. A faint sound echoed in the far distance. A crack. A low rumble. Hard to tell what made it.
The historian, who had insisted on coming to record the hunt, scribbled something on bark as he walked. His hands trembled a little.
The chief looked at him. "Watch feet. Not bark."
The historian nodded quickly. "Yes. Feet. I watch."
They kept going.
The path curved around a fallen tree. The trunk was split open, as if something had struck it with great strength. The wood was fresh. Pieces still clung to the edges.
His sister touched the splintered bark. "What could do this?"
The healer frowned. "Only great beast. Break tree like bone."
The rival walked ahead a few steps. "Maybe old tree. Rot inside."
"Tree not rot," the chief said softly.
They all stared at him.
He placed his hand on the broken wood. Smooth. Clean. Not torn by age. Torn by force.
Something strong had passed through this part of the forest. Recently.
They pushed forward, moving slower now.
The chief listened with every part of himself. The rustle of leaves. The shifting air. The faint groan of branches. Every sound mattered. Every silence mattered more.
After a while, the group reached a small clearing. Light filtered through the canopy, touching patches of earth. The air felt colder. A strange scent lingered, thick and metallic.
The chief stopped at the edge of the clearing.
Blood.
Dried drops on the grass. A trail that led toward a thicket of bushes.
He crouched again, touching the blood with two fingers. It was not human. The color was darker. The smell sharper.
His brother crouched beside him. "What kill this?"
The chief shook his head slowly.
The rival pointed toward the thick brush. "We follow?"
The chief hesitated. The feeling in his chest tightened again, like something inside him wanted to pull him back.
But the tribe needed meat.
He stood and motioned them forward.
The brush parted as they pushed through. Branches snapped. Leaves rustled. The ground sloped downward into a narrow ravine. Shadows clung to the walls. The air grew colder still.
At the bottom of the ravine, they found the carcass.
A deer lay on its side, throat torn open. Deep claw marks carved through its hide. Its ribs showed where flesh had been ripped away. The wound marks were large. Too large for any beast they knew.
The hunters stopped dead.
His sister covered her mouth. The healer murmured something under his breath. The rival knelt beside the carcass, studying the bite marks.
"This is no lion," he said quietly. "No bear. No cat."
His brother frowned. "Something else?"
"Something big," the rival answered.
The chief remained silent. His eyes moved across the carcass. The blood had been drunk. Not eaten. The flesh torn, but not for feeding. This was not hunger. This was territory. This was dominance.
This was a warning.
He felt it in his bones.
The historian scribbled frantically, voice trembling. "New beast. Strong beast. We must remember this hunt."
One of the newer hunters swallowed hard. "We go back? We leave forest?"
His brother rolled his shoulders. "We hunt. Not run."
The chief looked again at the broken throat of the deer. Then at the claw marks in the earth. Then at the shadows stretching across the ravine floor.
He pointed to the trees above. "Up. Move fast."
The hunters obeyed, climbing out of the ravine and back onto level ground. The chief followed last, glancing once more at the carcass.
The forest felt even heavier now.
He walked ahead of the group, leading them toward a known hunting trail where smaller prey often passed. He hoped to find something there. Something simple. Something normal. Anything to cut through the tension hanging over them.
But the forest stayed silent.
Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Hard to measure time in the thick shade. Their breaths sounded too loud. Their footsteps too sharp.
Then his brother raised his spear stick. "Look. Prints."
On the ground, fresh tracks. Deer. Smaller prints this time. They broke into a jog, following the trail. The chief felt his heartbeat quicken. Not from excitement. From warning. Something inside him whispered again, telling him they were not alone.
They reached another clearing.
Three deer grazed near a fallen log, their heads lifting as the hunters approached. They tensed, ready to flee.
The chief signaled sharply.
The hunters spread out to cut off escape. His brother circled left. The rival moved right. The chief stepped forward, spear stick ready.
The deer leaped.
The tribe charged.
The clearing exploded with movement. The chief lunged at the nearest deer, thrusting his spear stick toward its side. The point struck. The deer stumbled, kicking wildly. He dodged the hooves and struck again, deeper this time. The deer fell with a cry.
He heard shouts behind him. His brother wrestled another deer to the ground, using brute strength. The rival took down the third with a well timed strike to the neck.
The clearing fell silent again.
Breathing was heavy. Sweat dampened skin. Blood soaked the ground, warm and steaming in the cool air.
The hunters gathered around their kills, relief spreading across their faces. The tension in their shoulders eased. Even the chief felt a small release of pressure.
But only for a moment.
A sound broke the quiet.
A long, low growl. Deep. Cold. It rolled across the clearing like thunder trapped under the earth.
Every head snapped up.
The chief turned slowly.
At the far edge of the clearing, half hidden by shadows, something stood.
Two eyes glowed in the darkness. Yellow. Burning. Fixed on him.
The chief did not breathe.
The beast stepped into the faint light.
A wolf. But larger than any wolf could be. Its shoulders were as high as a man's chest. Its fur was black, thick as night. Muscles rippled under its hide. Its jaws hung open slightly, showing long, curved teeth stained with old blood.
Its eyes were cold. Intelligent. Hungry.
One of the younger hunters stumbled backward. "Spirits protect us."
The wolf's gaze never left the chief.
It moved forward, slow and deliberate. Each step silent. Each movement controlled. Its presence filled the clearing like a storm.
The rival whispered, "This is no normal beast."
His brother tightened his grip on his spear stick. "We fight."
The chief raised his hand. "No attack. Not yet."
The hunters froze.
The wolf stared at him, head tilted slightly. Its ears twitched. Its breath steamed in the air. It looked at him as if it recognized him. As if it remembered something he had not yet lived.
The chief took one step forward.
The wolf's lips curled, revealing more teeth.
His heart beat faster. His palms felt damp. The world seemed to narrow until only he and the beast remained. Everything else faded.
His sister whispered behind him, voice tight with fear. "Come back."
He did not move.
The wolf lowered its body, muscles bunching.
The chief felt the moment before it happened. A ripple of instinct. A silent scream in his bones telling him to move.
The wolf charged.
He dodged to the side, the beast missing him by a breath. Its claws tore the earth where he stood. It spun with unnatural speed. He brought his spear stick up, aiming for its flank.
The stick broke.
The wolf slammed into him, and the world dropped away.
He hit the ground hard. Air burst from his lungs. Pain shot across his ribs. The wolf's jaws snapped inches from his throat. He rolled, grabbing a broken fragment of the spear stick.
The beast came again.
He swung. The wood struck the wolf's muzzle. It growled, shaking its head, then lunged again. He barely avoided its next strike, feeling claws scrape his shoulder.
Pain burned down his arm.
He staggered back, breath ragged.
His brother shouted, "Chief. Move."
Hunters rushed forward.
The wolf snarled, snapping at anyone who approached. The rival thrust his spear stick at it, but the beast knocked it aside with a swipe of its paw, splitting the stick in two.
The chief forced himself up.
The wolf looked at him again.
The eyes were not just hungry.
They were claiming him.
The wolf lunged once more, faster than before. He raised his remaining spear fragment, trying to block the strike, but the beast was stronger. Its claws tore across his side. Blood spilled hot against the cold air.
His vision blurred.
He stepped back, stumbling.
The rival grabbed him under the arm. "We leave. Now."
His brother roared, swinging wildly at the beast to hold it back. Hunters pulled the chief toward the trees.
The wolf snarled, but it did not chase.
It simply watched, chest rising and falling, breath thick in the air.
Its eyes stayed locked on the chief.
As if promising to meet again.
The hunters dragged him away. His legs felt weak. His side burned. His head throbbed. The world tilted and swayed around him. He heard shouts, felt hands gripping his arms, sensed the panic in the group.
But his thoughts stayed on the beast.
Its size.
Its power.
Its eyes.
He had faced many creatures in the forest. He had fought lions, boars, bears. He had killed beasts twice his size. He had saved hunters, guided hunts, survived storms.
But he had never felt fear like that.
Fear that reached into his bones.
Fear that whispered truth.
Humans were prey.
He gasped as pain shot through his body. His sister cried out, pressing her hands against his wound. The healer ran beside them, digging through his pouches for crushed leaves.
The chief blinked hard, struggling to stay awake.
The forest seemed darker than before. The air colder. The silence deeper.
He tasted blood on his lips.
He saw the wolf's eyes every time he blinked.
He felt its presence even as they left the clearing.
He knew the truth now.
The tribe was not safe.
The forest was not theirs.
The world was changing.
And something inside him whispered again.
Grow.
Or die.