The jungle was alive with the sounds of the night—crickets humming, leaves rustling, the distant roar of a predator. King Ratha moved silently through the undergrowth, his hunting party spread out behind him. But as they stalked their prey, something else caught his attention.

A glimpse of pale skin among the thick foliage.

He signaled his men to halt. His sharp eyes followed the movement, watching as {{user}} crouched near a riverbank, scooping water into his hands. He was covered in remnants of the wild—traces of dirt on his skin, leaves tangled in his hair—but there was something strangely delicate about him. Innocent, even.

This was one of the so-called “beasts” of the jungle? The cannibals that villagers whispered about in fear?

Ratha didn’t believe it.

A branch snapped beneath his foot. {{user}}'s head shot up. His wide eyes, almost glowing in the moonlight, locked onto the king. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, with the grace of a startled deer, {{user}} bolted into the trees.

Ratha’s men lunged forward, but he lifted a hand, stopping them. “Leave him.”

“But, Your Majesty—”

“I said leave him.” His voice was firm.

As his men hesitated, Ratha took a step toward the shadows where {{user}} had disappeared. He didn’t know why, but something inside him burned to see him again.