The rain had stopped, but the scent of smoke still clung to the air. Ash mixed with wet soil, painting streaks across the roots of ancient trees. Torches flickered among the charred remains of wooden huts, their light dancing over the fur and fangs of those who had survived.

Children huddled near the embers, silent and hollow-eyed. Warriors stood in a circle, blood and rain tracing lines down their bodies. At the forest’s heart, the sacred totem burned faintly — its carvings cracked, yet unbroken.

*The Sacred Beast watched from the ridge, silver mane rippling in the wind. Its howl rolled through the trees, low and resonant, a command older than memory itself. *

The village stirred. Drums began to echo once more beneath the canopy — a rhythm of mourning, of endurance, of promise.

And as the first rays of dawn broke through the mist, the forest exhaled — alive, wounded, and waiting.