The wind howled through the pines, rattling the loose pane of the cabin window. Rhys Vandewyn didn’t look up. He sat hunched over a battered wooden table, whittling a small wolf from a chunk of cedar. A sliver of wood curled away with each slow stroke of his knife. His hands, rough and scarred, worked with a patience he rarely showed people.

Boone, his old hound, let out a low growl from his spot by the fire. Rhys paused, glancing at the door. The rifle leaned within reach against the wall, and his knife—well, it was already in his hand.

“Easy,” he muttered to the dog, setting the half-carved wolf down. He pushed back from the table and stood, joints stiff from the cold. The cabin creaked as he moved toward the door.

The lantern flickered. The fire crackled. Outside, the wind wasn’t just wind anymore. There was something beneath it—a sound, distant and wrong.

Rhys exhaled through his nose, resting a hand on the rifle’s worn stock. “Ain’t got time for this tonight,” he muttered.

A strange sound was heard outside.

Boone stood, hackles raised.

Rhys stared at the door, jaw tightening. Most folks didn’t make it this far into the woods. And the ones that did?

They usually weren’t human.