The forest of Terrak was a living, breathing entity—ancient, unforgiving, and indifferent to the petty rivalries of men. Eighteen years had carved Jorka from the boy who had once been Alex into something harder, leaner, more feral. His hands were calloused from endless hunts, his shoulders broad from hauling kills across miles of rough terrain, his dark hair tied back with a leather thong, streaked with the first hints of silver from too many winters survived on instinct alone. The curse of the High Goddess had done its work: no woman had ever touched him, no soft voice had ever soothed the ache that still simmered beneath his ribs. Only the hunt remained—relentless, clean, honest in its violence.
Today the air carried the metallic tang of coming rain. The twin moons were waxing, their pale light already bleeding through the canopy even though midday had barely passed. The entire clan had gathered at the edge of the Blackfang Ridge, a jagged spine of granite that overlooked the deep emerald bowl of the lower forest. Jarl Sorang—Jorka's father—stood tallest among the elders, his grizzled beard braided with bone beads, his axe resting across his knees. Beside him sat the gray-haired council, their faces carved from the same stone as the cliff itself.
"This is no ordinary hunt," Jarl had declared at dawn, voice carrying like distant thunder. "The black-striped tiger has been seen again—three kills in the last moon, two of our young goats and old Bran's hound. The beast mocks us. Today, the one who brings its pelt to the fire will be named Hunter of Soranghi. The honor is yours to claim, Dorag, Jorka. Prove your worth."
Dorag had smirked then, rolling his thick shoulders, the bear-claw scars across his chest gleaming in the firelight. Same age as Jorka—eighteen winters—but built like a bull, broad and brutal. Where Jorka moved with the quiet precision of a wolf, Dorag charged like a boar: all power, no subtlety. Their rivalry had grown from boyhood wrestling matches into something sharper, more dangerous. Every successful hunt, every scar, every admiring glance from the elders had been a tally in their silent war.
Now the rest of the clan perched on the high cliff like carrion birds, watching the two young hunters descend into the green sea below. Jorka carried only his favored spear—ash shaft, flint head honed to a razor—and a short bone-handled knife at his belt. Dorag hefted a heavy throwing axe in one hand and a recurved bow slung across his back. They had split at the treeline without a word, each vanishing into the undergrowth like shadows.
Jorka moved low and silent, bare feet reading the earth: broken twigs, fresh scat, the faint musk of big cat on the wind. Hours passed. The forest thickened, vines tangling like veins, sunlight reduced to thin golden spears. His muscles ached pleasantly from the climb and the stalk. He was patient. The tiger would reveal itself when it was ready—or when it thought him prey.
He reached a narrow stream that cut through the mossy stone like a silver vein. Clear water chuckled over rounded pebbles. Jorka crouched, cupping his hands to drink, eyes scanning the far bank. That was when he saw Dorag emerge from the opposite ferns, axe already raised. Their gazes locked across the water—mutual acknowledgment, mutual challenge. Neither spoke. The rivalry needed no words.
Then the world exploded into motion.
A low, guttural growl rolled from the undergrowth to their left. The ferns parted and the tiger stepped into view.
It was magnificent and terrible. Larger than any Jorka had ever seen, its coat a deep russet streaked with jet-black stripes, muscles coiling beneath like steel cables. Golden eyes burned with cold intelligence. The beast had been watching them both, waiting. A scar ran diagonally across its muzzle—old wound, badly healed—giving its snarl a permanent sneer.
Dorag reacted first.
With a bellow that echoed off the trees, he launched himself across the stream in a single bounding leap, axe swinging in a wide arc meant to split skull. The tiger moved faster than anything that size should. It flowed sideways, liquid muscle, and Dorag's axe buried itself in soft earth. The cat twisted, rearing up on hind legs, and slammed both forepaws into Dorag's chest. Claws raked through hide armor; Dorag grunted as the impact hurled him backward. He hit the stream on his back, water exploding around him, the tiger already bounding away into the thicket.
Jorka was already moving.
He sprinted downstream, spear gripped in both hands, following the crashing trail the tiger left—snapped saplings, torn moss, the copper scent of blood where Dorag's scratches had drawn red. Behind him he heard Dorag roaring curses, splashing out of the water, giving chase.
The pursuit became a blur of green and shadow.
The tiger was cunning. It doubled back once, trying to lose them in a tangle of fallen logs. Jorka anticipated the move, cutting the angle, forcing it to break cover again. Dorag flanked right, attempting to herd it toward open ground. They moved in unspoken tandem—not allies, but two predators locked on the same prize. The beast snarled, leaped over a fallen trunk, and vanished into a wall of bracken.