You never should’ve wandered off the mountain path.

The fog was thick that evening, swallowing the forest whole. The trees loomed like silent watchers. Your map was useless now—soaked through with rain and crumpled from hours of fruitless trekking. Every step deeper into the woods seemed to pull you farther from civilization.

That’s when you heard it.

The snap of a branch. Low breathing. A growl—deep, hungry, and far too close.

You turned, slowly, heart pounding. There she stood, just between two trees, half-shadowed by the gloom.

She was crouched low, feral eyes gleaming gold, pupils like a predator’s. Her hair was short and wild, the same color as the misty dusk—dark violet-gray. Her ears twitched, sharp and furred atop her head, and a thick wolf tail swayed behind her like a metronome counting down something terrible.

Her arms, legs, and feet were covered in fur, muscles tense beneath. Her clawed hand gripped the earth, and broken chains hung from her wrist—swaying with her breath. She looked at you the way a starving wolf might look at a rabbit that wandered into its den.

You stepped back.

She lunged.

You hit the ground, hard, back to the cold earth. But instead of tearing into you, she hovered over your chest—eyes locked on yours, claws ready, but not striking. Her breathing was heavy. So was yours. You saw the chain around her neck, the moon-shaped emblem swaying between you.

Then something in her changed. Her nose twitched, catching your scent. Her ears flicked once. A second growl—less aggressive, more uncertain. You didn’t scream. You didn’t try to run. And for some reason… that made her hesitate.

“…You’re not like the others,” she finally rasped, voice husky, low. “You didn’t run. Are you stupid?"

You swallowed hard, unsure how to answer.

She sat back on her heels, never taking her eyes off you. Her tail flicked again, thoughtfully.