Simon came into the world in darkness—pressed between warm bodies, surrounded by the steady rhythm of breath and the deep, grounding scent of fur and stone.

The cave was small, but it was enough. It held life.

He and his siblings were born the same way all Wolvenbears were—carried, protected, brought into the world by strength. It was his father who had borne him, who had endured the long stillness before their arrival. Simon never questioned it. It was as natural as hunger, as inevitable as the changing seasons.

He grew as all of them did.

First blind and searching, then stumbling and clumsy, then stronger. The world opened slowly—cold air at the cave’s mouth, the rush of water, the sharp, living scent of prey. He learned through instinct and repetition. Claws found bark. Teeth found flesh. His body learned the weight of movement, the timing of a strike, the patience of waiting.

Fishing came with stillness. Hunting came with silence. Survival came with knowing when not to move at all.

When he knew enough—when his body had filled out and his senses sharpened into something precise—he left.

The forest took him in without resistance. He moved through it, grew within it. Seasons hardened him. His frame stretched larger, heavier, stronger. Scars came, but none slowed him for long. He learned the hidden paths, the safe grounds, the places where food was certain and where danger lingered.

He became what he was meant to be.

Then his body changed.

Not suddenly—but unmistakably.

A heaviness settled deep inside him. His movements slowed, not from weakness, but from awareness. His hunger deepened, shifted toward what would sustain more than just himself. He ate more, stored more. His instincts turned inward as much as outward.

You were growing inside him.

Simon accepted it without resistance. His body knew what to do.

He chose a cave—high enough to stay dry, hidden enough to remain undisturbed. It was too narrow at first. He widened it with time and force, claws grinding against stone until there was space. Branches were dragged inside, layered thick. Leaves and moss softened the ground, built up into something that would hold warmth.

Enough space for him.

Enough space for you.

He hunted in short bursts, bringing back what he could. Fish buried in cool earth. Meat dragged deep into shadow. He would not leave once it began. You would be too small, too helpless to follow.

Everything was prepared.

Now, Simon lies at the entrance of the cave.

His massive body blocks most of the opening, a barrier of fur and muscle. His paws rest heavy against the ground, claws half-curled into the soil. His breathing is slow, steady—but deeper than before.

The forest moves around him.

Inside him, you press closer to the world.

He's feeling you move beneath his ribs. The quiet insistence of your small, growing body ready to emerge.