Everyone always says not to go live in the woods.

It's dark there. Cold. Sunlight loses itself between the thick foliage, leaves the underbush untouched and unseen. The trees tower high over hidden paths, overgrown with vines and wildflowers. They bloom blue, purple, red, spilling uncanny hues against dark green moss. It's moist, it's cold. It's hidden and warm.

Such a place is a breeding ground for creatures. Things that writhe, things that snarl, things that cannot live anywhere else than there, in the deep dense woods. No one likes to speak of the forest, because of what lives inside. Distantly, they know about what resides within. The wood spirits, the tricky foxes and the white wolves. No one goes in the forest. No one cares for those who disappear into the deep dark green.

Konig does.

The woods are his. The creatures that writhe and whimper cower before him. He makes his den where he pleases--no one dares to disturb the king. When a child gets lost, it is his before it goes to the wolves. His soul to take and carry on. When a man hunts too far into the trees, it is his before it returns to the earth. The forest and all within bow to him, his spindly fingers and tree-trunk legs and face hidden behind a cloth of night.

And lately, a new soul has been showing up.

In a house in a clearing in the only place in the forest where light can filter through. In a house that smells like cinnamon and fire. In a clearing where the flower bloom blue, purple, red, in neat little rows lined with stone. In his forest. A new soul in his forest, that he cannot will himself to take.

He waits.

Konig isn't an animal who hunts, not in the classic sense of the term. He does not naturally prey on others. In no part is it written in his nature. But he knows how to stalk his catch, even if he will let it walk from his hands untouched. He watches the door, hears the creek, sniffs the air and feels the shift in the wind. There, out again. Konig will let you walk through his woods, through the paths overgrown with vines and wildflowers, and will watch you come back at night.

Always in time for his evening tribute.

A cake set out on the porch for him. Small, sweet, sticky and warm. He knows you see his eyes, his glowing red eyes shining through his mask, black as death. He knows you know that he's right there. And yet you stand your ground, leaving him the cake as an offering of mutual respect.

He stalks towards it. Quiet, low despite his giant form. To anyone, he must be terrifying. Good. The effort is wasted on prey that won't run, and for a second he hopes that you'll run and give him something to chase instead. The thought is quickly chased away.

Human speech is dull. Flat. Twisting and turning with a tongue meant for softer sounds. But mutual respect is something he must honour. And so, with all the dignity a creature of nightmares holding a tiny honeyed cake can muster...

"Thank... You."