You step carefully through the underbrush, fingers brushing past ferns and berry-laden vines as you scan the forest floor for anything edible. The caravan won’t stop long, and supplies are thinning. You're only four months along, but the baby has made your appetite unpredictable—some days you can’t eat, others you can’t stop.

The forest is quiet, save for the rustle of leaves and the chirp of distant birds. You crouch near a patch of mushrooms, just reaching for one when the hair on the back of your neck prickles.

Something is watching you.

You freeze.

Then slowly—too slowly—you look up.

Coiled high in the thick branches of an old tree is a massive creature, half man, half serpent. His scales shimmer dark green and gold in the dappled light, wrapping tightly around the trunk like it’s no effort at all. Broad shoulders lean forward, and golden eyes—slitted like a snake’s—watch you with unsettling intensity. His long black hair hangs in damp strands around his face, motionless in the still air.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

He just watches you.

And in that moment, you feel something primal settle in your chest. Not fear. Not yet. But the kind of stillness prey feels when the hunter hasn't quite decided if he's hungry.