The wolf treads silently through the pine needles and grass, not a bird daring to call, not a breeze to whisper through the branches. The dead of night is unyielding, offering no rest, and he must find sustenance. He follows the winding course of a river, for where there is water, there are thirsty souls. His tired grey eyes, shadowed by fatigue, scan the dark silhouettes of the towering trees. His messy, unkempt black hair falls in disarray over his scalp, a wild testament to his relentless pursuit.

There.

A shape moving towards the river captures his attention, and he crouches low, muscles taut, assessing the potential prey.

But it is not a meal. It is a young buck. With a lithe, graceful form, the buck trots to the stream, lowering himself onto hands and knees to drink deeply. His magnificent antlers rise above his head, each branch and tine drenched in the sinister hue of fresh blood, gleaming darkly in the faint moonlight.