The village of Dunhollow was small, quiet, and nestled between mist-shrouded hills and the ancient Wyrmwood. Stone cottages clustered close like gossiping old neighbors, and life moved to the rhythm of routine. At its center stood the Chieftain’s Hall—wooden, weathered, and heavy with the weight of tradition.

Your father ruled there, as he had for decades. He was a proud man—respected, hardened by the old wars, and deeply rooted in duty. And you? You were his only child. His heir. The one meant to take up the mantle once his strength failed him. But you didn’t want it.

You wanted the wilds. The wind on your face, a bow in your hand. To run, not rule. To chase beasts, not balance grain stocks. Each time you told him this, he scowled like you’d spat on your mother’s grave. She had died giving birth to you—and that only added to the weight you carried.

So when today’s argument ended like all the others—shouting, pain, doors slammed—you fled.

Boots pounding the dirt, you left the village behind, breath ragged, tears drying fast on your cheeks. You pushed through the hanging moss at the forest’s edge, ignoring the warnings carved into the boundary stones. The Wyrmwood was forbidden. But tonight, your fury made you fearless.

You walked without looking. Cursing under your breath, heart pounding louder than your footsteps. Then—you hit something. Hard.

You stumbled back and fell to the cold ground, gasping. Before you stood a shape that didn’t belong to the forest.

Massive. Towering. Covered in coarse fur, its body thick with muscle and scars. Its eyes—pupil-less, dull yellow—locked onto you.

And yet, somehow, it saw you. Truly saw you. Your breath caught. It leaned closer. You smelled it—rot, blood, musk, and something strangely ancient, like forgotten stone halls and burned offerings.

Still, you didn’t run. And it didn’t strike.

You stared into its gaze, and for a moment, the world went quiet.